


Between the Nexus and Mundus

by FanficsbyVe



Series: Lost Souls On Nirn [2]
Category: Demon's Souls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-07-23 00:57:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7460397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficsbyVe/pseuds/FanficsbyVe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deceased souls from Boletaria pass through the veil and are reborn in Skyrim. FINISHED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trials of a Lost Prince

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to "Beyond the Abyss and Oblivion", with Demon's Souls characters. It takes place in the same continuity and I might make reference to the previous fic, but they can be read independently. Having just finished Demon's Souls, I hope you will have as much fun reading as I have writing.
> 
> Notes on this chapter: the actual religion of Demon's Souls is only discussed sparsely in-game, but seems to be largely based on Roman Catholicism. As such, I tend to fill in any potential details using this religion for reference.  
> Also, my Dovahzul is extremely poor, so if you see any mistakes, feel free to send me corrections.

When he was little, his father told him he was destined for grand things. 

He was a prince, his father would tell him, and he was born a prince for a reason. The Allant family had taken the throne of Boletaria for a reason and the strong blood of old King Doran flowed through their veins. Theirs was a destiny as leaders, warriors and scholars and it was about them that the bards would sing songs for centuries.

Now, the man who hid under the name Ostrava believed none of that. He was utterly broken, barely a shadow of the hopeful son who had left Latria in search of his father. The eager adventurer setting out on a quest, determined to disprove the foul rumors that his father had fallen into madness and corruption, had long since died in him, lost to the curse that was reality.

He had thought himself a great swordsman, the fair hero from the stories his father and uncle Rydell had told him all his life. It couldn’t be further from the truth. The world covered in the Demon Fog didn’t play by elegant fencing rules. It was harsh, dirty and unforgiving and many times, he had to rely on the help of a commoner knight far more battle hardened than him to survive. Every setback shattered his ego a little further and after a while, all that kept him going was the desire to simply find his father and quiet the rumors about him.

Yet even that wish was not granted. When he finally found his father, he was everything the wagging tongues claimed. A demon, beautiful but terrible, any regard for humanity gone and naught but a pawn for the Old One. He had fallen to his knees at the sight of it and for the first time during his journey, he wept.

He should have fought his father, even if he knew it was a lost cause. He should have at least faced death with dignity and know he died trying to stop a monster. Yet he couldn’t even do that. Instead, he had simply turned tail and fled, running until he could run no further. He had then collapsed on the stairs, telling the commoner knight where to find the King and then, overwhelmed with shame and grief, he took his own life.

Even now, drifting in darkness, he wanted to laugh at that. He couldn’t even die heroically. He truly was a weakling and perhaps, this was his punishment. His mind was still alive and conscious, but there was nothing but dark around him. Endless, empty blackness without beginning or end.

Was this the fate of those who committed suicide, he wondered? To be forever lost to darkness and silence, alone with one’s regrets until it slowly drove them mad? It wouldn’t surprise him anymore at this point.

Part of him wanted nothing more than to just lay back and let it overwhelm him. To just quietly fade out of existence, like he was promised would happen if he had stayed in the Nexus. Still, something told him that this void, wherever it was, would not be that merciful.

So, after a while, he decided to wander. Through deep black and endless emptiness, he journeyed without destination. He walked and mulled with only his shame to drive him forward, surrounded by silence on all sides.

He meandered like this for days, perhaps even weeks, uncaring of whatever would happen to him. After a while, he could not even bother to feel grief at his losses. All there was left for him was to move forward, with a body that somehow never tired or starved, until perhaps, he would eventually move no more.

Then, in an undefined moment, his ear picked up on something. Something faint, like the chanting of a tribe about to go to war. He held still and listened. The noise should have scared him, but he instead found himself soothed. After being swathed in dark for so long, any kind of stimuli was enough to stir a tiny measure of joy in him.

So, rather than running away, he decided to follow the noise. He stubbornly kept moving, the chanting becoming a beacon and for the first time in an eternity, he felt something akin to hope. The chants were slowly becoming one with the rhythm of his ever quickening heart and like the drums of war, they made his blood rush. He increased his pace, determined to find the source.

He didn’t even notice the light until he was surrounded by it. A beautiful sky, with vivid colors the likes of which he had never seen. When it did catch his eye, he stopped and watched with baited breath. After being in the dark for so long, the luminous sky practically hurt his eyes, but he could not look away from something so striking. It was only after several moments that he managed to tear his gaze away and finally assess his current location.

The land around him was unfamiliar. All he saw was wilderness, bathed in the ethereal light no sun could produce, with howling winds, large fir trees and imposing statues wherever he looked. Fire pits were lit to signify a path of sorts, leading into a valley covered by a thick shroud of mist. 

Just where was he? Ostrava knew that uncertainty should give him pause. Yet a strange, irresistible power urged him to move, to walk down that path into the fog. The strange chanting, that now seemed to come from nowhere in particular, drew him in and without so much as thinking, he started to descend down the slope into the unknown.

Soon, he realized he was not alone. There were others, he soon realized. Tall figures, weaving in and out of the fog, all walking in the same direction as him. Men and women, wearing strange armor that he had never seen before. They seemed to notice him, but didn’t stop to look or talk. They all kept moving as if hypnotized, striding through the mist towards the unknown destination.

Something about their demeanor chilled him to the bone, yet he never stopped moving. He kept following the strange crowd through the vale, trying to take heart in the fact that they were not hostile. Perhaps, he hoped, they would lead him to a place where he could ask for shelter and directions.

Indeed, after what seemed like an endless trek, he saw something. A large building appeared from the fog, awe-inspiring in its sheer size. As he got close, he saw it was situated on a small island within a bottomless chasm, with the only way to cross it the bones of a long dead being. Again, Ostrava wondered just where he had ended up. 

His eyes were drawn towards the entry point of the bridge. He noticed a tall man standing there, seemingly guarding it. He saw how he seemed to turn away some of the people who approached, but let others pass. Was this place hostile to outsiders, perhaps? If so, that likely wouldn’t bode well for him. After a moment’s hesitation, however, he decided to wait his turn anyway. He didn’t want to cross that bridge. If only the man told him where he was and how to get home, he was content.

He didn’t have to wait for long. Soon, his turn came and the tall man walked up to him. He looked him over several times, apparently very interested in his out of place appearance. 

“What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor’s gift to honored dead?”

Those words, having clearly been said many times before, hit him like a warhammer. “Souls-end”… “Honored dead”… Was he truly...after ending his life…

The hairs on the back of his neck raised. No, it couldn't be... Not possibly. This place looked nothing like what he was told, what he expected. It took him countless moments before words finally came to him.

“”Dead”? Do you mean to say…I am in the afterlife?”

The man nodded. “Yes, you stand before the Hall of Valor, where honorable warriors go in death. However, you came under very special circumstances, Ariona Allant. It was I who bade you here.”

For a moment, Ostrava felt like someone had seized his throat and squeezed all air from it. He had not heard his birth name in ages. He could not think of any way this man would know it unless he truly was a godlike creature. Still, this looked nothing like the Paradise the Saints had told him about.

“Who…are you?”

“I am Tsun, shield-thane to Shor. The Whalebone Bridge he bade me guard and winnow all those souls whose heroic end sent them here, to Shor’s lofty hall where welcome, well-earned, awaits those I judge fit to join that fellowship of honor.”

The stream of words rendered Ostrava dizzy. He had never heard of Tsun or Shor, though he could sort of understand their purpose. This was essentially the gate to Paradise with the Saint judging who would pass. His heart sank at that thought. If that was true, he already knew what answer he would get. 

“I am afraid I am not worthy of that honor, Saint Tsun. I have taken my own life in shame. I do not deserve to enter any hallowed halls…”

The Saint-like being gave him an even look. “Indeed, you do not. Not yet. Normally, the likes of you are sent to the Dreamsleeve, to come back to life as babes and try once more. Yet this may not be your share.”

The prince stared at him in confusion and he continued. “Dishonorably is how you died, but you are a shade set apart from others, having never walked Mundus, and I have taken an interest in your fate. Yours is a story that is not yet over, Ariona Allant of Boletaria, he who hides as Ostrava, and you must content with the weakness of the flesh once more before your fate is decided.”

By now, the prince was even more confused. “I…do not understand.”

“A second chance has been granted to you. Do not waste it and you may join the blessed feasting when you have completed your count of days.”

Those words, spoken with so much conviction, only left Ostrava more lost. He was given a second chance? How was that even so? He was already dead, wasn’t he? How could he possibly make up for his mistakes?

He opened his mouth to speak, only for Tsun to interrupt him. “You will be sent to a new world, with the means to eke out a new existence. Fight and show courage, so that your life will not end in cowardice once more and you are spared being reborn through the Dreamsleeve.”

Once more, the prince tried to raise his voice to protest. He didn’t even get so much as a word out of his mouth. Tsun spoke an odd language, shouted it more like, and suddenly, the world was spinning. A bright light enveloped him and he fell to the ground, thunder in his ears, as the strange world, this Sovngarde, faded out of existence.

When he came to, the first thing he felt was bitter cold. Icy wind beat down on him and snow fell from the sky relentlessly. The sheer intensity of it had him gasp and jump up. He looked around, unnerved and desperate, wondering what kind of hell he had entered now.

Then, something shiny caught his eye. Beside him was a set of clothes and steel plate armor, as well as a shield and sword. Knowing he would die if he didn’t act, he scrambled over and quickly started to put them on. He thanked his lucky stars that the garments and armor fit and as he could feel his body slowly heating up again, he let out a relieved sigh.

His relief didn’t last long. A horrific croaking noise was heard close by. He whipped his head in it direction, only to nearly scream. 

A few feet away from him stood a horrific, decomposing wraith of a man, speaking in a demonic tongue. The mere sight of it had him back away and his heart was beating so fast it threatened to leap out his throat. The air around this creature breathed evil and then and there, he knew it aimed to make him his next victim.

Ostrava gripped his sword, but just as he was about to act, he was blindsided by a sudden blizzard of ice. He only barely rolled out of the way, his eyes rapidly shifting back and forward to anticipate its next move. Within seconds, his eye fell onto a horrific looking creature again, summoning terrible thralls, and as it charged him alongside its minions, he could only feel despair and the urge to flee.

Why did this have to happen to him? What kind of cruel jest did Tsun see fit to play on him by placing him here? He was not a warrior and his trials in Boletarian had cured him of dreams of heroism. He wasn't fit to fight so much as a dregling, let alone a monster like this.

What if this was not a second chance at all, he then wondered. What if the Saint-like being had simply lied and sent him here as punishment for his cowardice? He would definitely deserve it. He was a weakling and too frightened to even do the right thing.

He only barely dodged a second onslaught of icicles, only to start running as one of the monstrous summoned creatures came barreling down on him. Beyond himself with fright, he started to flail at it with his weapon. The creature let out a grunt of pain, but he hardly noticed it as he desperately tried to protect himself.

A faint sliver in the back of his mind asked him why he bothered. Was it perhaps not better to let this monster kill him? It would be, had he not feared Tsun’s words about this place called the Dreamsleeve…

If he failed, if he died, he would be reborn. His soul would be reborn as a babe, to try again and again into infinity. An endless cycle, suffering born of his own making.

The thought alone caused a paralyzing fear in him. No, he didn’t want that fate for himself. If death was not going to bring him peace, it was not a refuge. If would be an endless nightmare, a worse punishment than a Demon Fog. That was a thought he couldn’t bear…

Trying to put as much distance between him and the thrall as possible, his attention turned back to the wraith. This creature summoned the behemoth currently attacking him and could likely summon many more. Perhaps, if he could somehow bring it down…

Knowing it was him or these monsters, something inside him shifted. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, an instinct he never before felt taking over. He straightened his back, facing the monstrosity, and started to charge it.

The undead mage saw him coming. Instantly, it started to fling ice at him. Ostrava ducked and the attack soared right over his head. He then kept running and for the briefest of moments, he swore he could see surprise on the wraith’s face. More attacks soon followed, but the prince was not deterred. He kept avoiding the icicles, deflecting some with his shield, and within seconds, he had closed the gap.

Calling upon every inch of his strength and bravery, he leaped at the undead mage and throttled him. He plunged his sword into its chest and the creature let out a horrific scream. He ignored the sound, instead pulling his weapon back before plunging it in again and again until, finally, it didn’t move anymore.

Within seconds, the storm creature it summoned disappeared, dissolving into a haze of lightning and thunder. He could only watch in utter silence, panting madly. He stayed there for a few moments, in utter bewilderment that his gamble had paid off. He couldn’t feel anything but pure astonishment, but as the seconds ticked by and the reality of the situation sank in, another feeling made itself known.

Triumph. 

Ostrava almost wanted to laugh. Here he was, flung into a hostile environment after being banished from the afterlife and yet he felt accomplished. It was absurd, really, and really inappropriate, yet that sense of victory, of overcoming a foe with skill and deduction, made all the difference.

He stood up, shaking the blood of his blade. After checking the body of his vanquished foe, he investigated his environment. He was on a stone platform, and judging by the raging winds and splendid view, in the mountains. Mere feet away from him was a flight of stone hewn stairs, leading down to an unknown destination.

He looked down the winding path, but he found it did not discourage him. The adrenaline still flowed richly and deep within him, vicious determination took hold. Even though he had the feeling the road down would lead him to other terrors, his decision was made.

He was going to get off this mountain or die trying.

With more resolve than he had ever felt in his life, he started to make his way down. As he expected, it was not an easy climb. Strange undead, growling and rotting, charged at him from all sides, hacking at him with their weapons and conjuring force fields with their voices. Soon, he was once again fighting for his life.

Yet, he fought. He paid them in kind for every cut and slash they aimed at him, fighting with the kind of ferocity he had never given into before. He watched as their bodies stilled with his steel in their chest, before taking any valuable trinkets like coins or potions off their bodies. A dangerous glint settled in his eyes with every new wave that approached him and after a while, he no longer even bothered shaking the blood of his blade.

Even when a roar and the beating of wings reached his ears and he looked up to see a dragon, fear only took hold of him very briefly. Instead, he readied his sword and shield to engage the beast. He fought it tooth and nail, dodging its attacks and sharp teeth, never once flinching in the face of its fire. He had come this far and he refused to die by the hands of the overgrown lizards who had terrorized his homeland.

When the creature fell, he couldn’t resist taking its bones as a trophy. In fact, he realized, his journey down the mountain was strangely fruitful. He found golden coins, gemstones, even weapons and armor. As he trudged through snow, ancient ruins and the corpses of his enemies, he was gathering treasure and confidence in equal amounts and after so all the darkness and despair, he welcomed it. 

With every downed foe, every inch won over all the hostile creatures facing him, Ostrava could feel how his spirit hardened. The desolation, the sense of helplessness he had felt throughout his journey in Boletaria was silenced with every swing of his sword and every bash of his shield. Right now, he cared about nothing but his own survival by any means and at one point, he even felt an irreverent smile come onto his face.

When he finally reached the end of the path, there was another ferocious dragon waiting for him. By now, the creature’s presence no longer had him blink. He didn’t care what he had to defeat anymore. It was merely another obstacle in his way.

His way…

It was then he caught a glimpse of the area behind the dragon and cold reality hit him. The path he had so avidly followed stopped abruptly. All he saw was an endless chasm, deeper and steeper than he thought possible. He looked and looked, hoping to find some way around, but all he saw was an abyss, impossible to traverse.

Just like that, the slight bit of hope he had felt started to crumble. He started to feel the ache in his bones, the cuts in his flesh and the sweat on his brow. All that effort, only to become stuck at the end… Perhaps this truly was some cruel prank devised by this Tsun and there really was no escape for him… That idea was enough for him to snap, yet unlike before, he could not weep anymore. Instead, he wanted to fight.

Angered by the idea that all his efforts may have been for nothing, he turned to vent his frustration on the dragon. The giant lizard seemed eager to tear him apart limb from limb. He no longer even cared. He had come all this way for nothing and at this point, fighting was all he could do not to break down.

Perhaps, some of that mentality was visible on him. The dragon ceased its growling and stared at him intently. He saw the beast’s nostrils flare, no doubt smelling all the blood on him, and after several tense moments, its jaws opened. He expected fire, but instead, there was a deep and growling voice.

“Hi bol no Sovngarde. Few ever come down this mountain, kendov. You must have been blooded indeed…”

The moment he heard that voice, Ostrava was nailed to the ground in utter bewilderment. Where he came from, dragons were intelligent but could not speak. It was bizarre to hear a voice come out of this monster and while he didn’t understand some of its words, it seemed to have a decent grip of his language. The strangeness of that notion almost made him want to laugh, were it not for the direness of the situation.

His hand clenched around his sword and his mind raced. The dragon’s intentions were a mystery to him. For all he knew, it simply wanted to toy with him before attempting to eat him. Still, at this point he had nothing to lose and as a prince schooled in diplomacy, he decided he might as well try to feel the creature out. 

“Oh yes, I have been blooded and then some. The price to pay for being sent to the land of the living. Alas, it seems the road has ended, but I am presented with a possible foe. Yet I have no desire to accept a luckless fate…”

A short silence ensued and he and the dragon quietly stared at each other. He forced himself not to make any sudden movements while still anticipating an unexpected attack. He tried his best to stare his potential opponent down, determined to show him his determination. This impasse seemed to take an eternity before, finally, the dragon spoke again.

“The dovah respect those who are strong and I have no desire to risk dying today. Zu’u fen dreh hi aan ahmik. I will fly you off this mountain and we shall not engage in battle this day.”

The creature’s response nearly had Ostrava’s eyes widen. He quickly blinked to hide it, clenching his jaw to keep it from falling open. Had he, a coward and a weakling, seriously intimidated a dragon into helping him get off the mountain? Either this creature was very easy to fool or he was being extremely, insanely fortunate.

He was clever enough not to show this, however, and simply nodded. “That seems very reasonable. My thanks for your kindness, dragon. Take me as close to civilization as is safe for you and I consider our pact fulfilled.”

The dragon was quick to take him up on this. He allowed the prince to climb onto its back and soon, it beat its giant wings and they were soaring upwards, through a bright and icy sky. He should have been scared being on top of this vicious creature, miles above the ground, yet he only felt exhilaration. How many other human beings, he pondered, got the chance to see the world like a dragon could?

No, the flight made his spirit soar. To be this high above the earth, one with the wind and sky, made him oddly at peace if only for a while. He savored it, a pleasant reward after his awful struggle from before. Still, he also felt extremely joyful to once again set his feet on solid ground. 

The dragon kept its word. It let him dismount on the side of a mountain path and told him to follow it down to the small village below. It wished him well and flew off, leaving him to follow its advice and make his way down. It hadn’t lied and he was immensely relieved to indeed find himself overlooking a tiny town. Just in time too. Nightfall was coming over the land and he didn’t want to be out in the wilds around this time.

It didn’t take long to reach it and he could feel how the eyes of every retiring local fixed on him as he entered. He could hardly blame him. This place appeared remote and he was dressed in armor from head to toe and drenched in the blood of his enemies. He looked more like a thug than a civilized human being and he knew more than anyone else that appearance was everything. He should definitely find some place to clean up, provided someone was willing to aid him in his state.

He didn’t get to think on that need for long. His attention was caught by the sound of screams and shouts, intermitted by deep growls. Still high on wariness and adrenaline, he turned towards it and his eyes narrowed to slits when he noticed a few large, hairy beasts tangle with what looked like the town guards, while the villagers tried to flee.

A small sigh left his mouth and his hand reached for his sword. As intimidating as these creatures seemed, he wasn’t afraid. He didn’t care they could knock the guards flat with only a punch. He didn’t care that they had sharp claws and even sharper teeth. He didn’t even care their wounds seemed to heal as soon as they inflicted. By now, he had fought everything from dragons to undead just to scale a mountain. What were a few more ogres to him?

Having made up his mind, took out his weapons and ran at the cretins. They saw him coming, but their vicious swipes were easily blocked by his shield. He jammed his sword into the ribs of the creature nearest to him, pushing it in deep to aim for the vital organs.

The wound, however, barely seemed to faze the monster. Soon, they both of them were upon him once more and he found himself retreating. A hail of blows beat down on his shield and any cuts he made seemed to heal. Soon, he could do nothing but try to put distance between him and the beasts. The guards seemed just about ready to run too and it wasn’t long before the fight was descending into chaos.

Then, he noticed the beings recoiling briefly. He caught sight of a torch lying on the ground, likely dropped by one of the guards. The monsters avoided it, trying to step around it with a wide berth.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. Thinking fast, he grabbed the torch and charged at the nearest creature. He jammed the flaming end into the creature’s fur and thanks to the dry moss stuck in it, it quickly caught fire. The thing shrieked in response and tried to lunge at him, but he responded by quickly jumping off and going for the second one. 

Swinging the sword and the torch in tandem, Ostrava set upon his adversary. As he set flame to its fur, he continued to hack at it while trying to avoid any blows in retaliation. Still, his tenacity was motivating the guards and soon, the men and women charged back in, bringing down the beasts with fire and combined efforts.

Within moments, the monsters were dispatched, reduced to bloody and charred corpses. With the threat out of the way, the prince allowed himself to sit for a moment, panting but smiling. Proud that he had managed to overcome yet another obstacle today, he no longer even cared that he looked disheveled and, it seemed, neither did the guards, as a few approached him with a smile.

“Thanks a lot, stranger. These trolls have been a nuisance to Ivarstead for months now. We sent guards before, but we just couldn’t get the drop on them. You have done us quite the service, …”

Noting the pause at the end of that sentence, the prince assumed this was the right time to introduce himself and possibly ask for help too. “My name is Ostrava. I traveled here from the mountains in the east. Could you be so kind as to direct me to a place that provides bed and board? I am not familiar here.”

Some part of him realized he had deliberately chosen not to introduce himself with his birth name. He thought this was apt. He was no longer a prince, after all, and he would never see his kingdom or sit on a throne again. If he was in a new and strange place, a new name seemed suitable as well. Besides, it wasn’t like these people knew any better and they appeared to like him all the same.

“Well, Ostrava, for this kind of bravery, I’ll get you a room and a meal on me.”

He didn’t even get a chance to protest the guard’s kindness. As nightfall finally set in, he found himself in the comfort of the Vilemyr Inn. He was cleaned up, enjoying wine and a pheasant roast with vegetable soup and had a warm, clean bed waiting for him. He spent the night talking to the other patrons of the small establishment, trying to learn what he could about this place. 

Of course, eventually the question arose where he came from. He tried his best to be non-specific and yet unsuspicious. He said he had washed up in the east from a shipwreck caused by a dark storm and got lost in the mountain ranges, Skuldafn as he learned it was called. He had then claimed he journeyed this way, at which point he carefully left out the dragon, and that this was the first friendly town he came upon. It sounded convincing enough that they bought it and as the conversation went on, he became bold enough to ask the question that had been on his mind for a long time now.

“This may sound extremely odd to you, but does the name Tsun say anything to you?”

Almost immediately, one of the older men named Jofthor smiled. “Aye. He is the God of trials against adversity in the old Nordic pantheon, shield-thane of the Dead God Shor. Why do you ask?”

Ostrava didn’t answer right away. He stilled, his eyes widening slightly. He had expected many answers, but not quite the one he got. His heart started pounding and breath eluded him for a moment. Suddenly, everything about his ordeal fell into place and started to make sense.

He noticed the strange looks his compatriots gave him and he quickly recovered, his mind scrambling for an excuse. “I saw the old, withered remains of a shrine somewhere deep in the mountains. Forgive me, I am not quite familiar with the Nordic religion.”

Jofthor laughed. “No harm done. You clearly didn't grow up here in the homeland. But if you intend to stay around Skyrim, you will learn our customs soon enough.”

The former prince laughed in response, ignoring the fact he didn’t understand half the words in that sentence. Right now, he wasn’t in the mood to worry. There was food, drink and merriment, something he had not experienced in a lifetime. He wanted to savor it, for however long it might last.

What more, he couldn’t help but think about what he was just told and how it defined everything that had happened to him. This being, this Tsun, had not been a saint at the gate of Paradise like he thought. He was a God in his own right. A god of trials against adversity had seen fit to drag him out of the darkness and give him a second chance. 

Why, he ached to know. Why him? A spoiled, pampered prince who had foolishly gone onto a quest he could not complete and had then taken his own life afterwards? He was a coward. A weakling not worthy of the mercy of a God.

Or was he?

His confidence, having long been silenced by hostility, started to speak once more. It reminded him of the events of the day. Of his brief time in this place called Sovngarde. Of everything he encountered on Skuldafn.

He had fought there. He had fought wraithlike mages, dragons and undead alike, just to get of a mountain. He had been afraid, so frightened he felt like running, but he had not fled. Instead, he had stood his ground and fought, struggling for survival against overwhelming odds, urged on by a primal instinct to live. He had temporarily tamed a dragon by sheer tenacity and then he had come here and battled fearsome foes once more. 

It was only now that Ostrava realized that perhaps, he wasn’t as weak as he thought he was. Not nearly as incompetent or afraid to get his hands dirty. He had escaped a dangerous mountain range from the underworld entirely on his own merits, laughing in the face of his own fears and spitting at fate. When he had been sent onto that mountain, he was a boy, frightened, weak-willed and cowardly. When he came down from it, he had become a man, steadfast, determined and hardened. A man, he now decided, who was indeed worthy of a second chance.

That thought, so sudden yet pure, filled him with a sense of peace he had not felt since he left Latria. He felt alive, vibrant, no longer weighed down by shame or grief. He had cast off the shackles of his own sins by completing the challenge a God posed him and he had passed it with flying colors. 

This odd and unfamiliar land, this Skyrim, was going to be his home. He had bested some of its monsters and now, its people gave him hospitality not because they should honor a prince but simply out of gratitude for his actions. That seemed like a good way to live and he was ready to leave the past behind and start over.

That decision was his best in years, he decided. One way or another, he’d settle here and find happiness, no matter the odds. That promise to himself strengthened him and he decided that he might as well start that humble quest today. He drank and made merry, without a care in the world, and when he finally went to sleep, the darkness he entered was a calm one without nightmares for once.


	2. The Aberrant Swordswoman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selen finds a purpose away from the church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware I am cheating somewhat with Selen, since she does not canonically have to die for her quest to be completed. Still, Demon's Souls has few other female characters and we know very little about Oolan, Vito and Lizaia (the game cannot even settle on the spelling of the names of the last two). Since Selen gets a little more screentime and has a history with a prominent boss fight, she made for a better choice.

The Vinland family was strong. Strong and enduring. Like the vineyards that somehow managed to yield a rich harvest in their sun-swept corner of West-Boletaria, so did her family weather any hardship that came their way. They were an old and proud house of Knights, loyal to the Church and yielding for neither foreign army nor Demon.

Selen Vinland had always found comfort in those claims and spent most of her life living up to them. Like most of her family, she was a warrior as much as a noble, and her loyalty to her roots went deep. She had served the Church as a holy knight for many years, doing the Vinland name proud, with the plan to return back home and take over the family’s estate when her father became too old to do so.

Now, nothing of that bright, promising future remained. She was sick and dying, alone with nothing but blessings from a Church who could not help her. Her brother was gone, having turned away from God in the Valley of Defilement, and as church protocol had urged her to cease contact, she now faced her last days alone.

All of Boletaria celebrated as the threat of the Demons was vanquished, but Selen could no longer feel joy at this victory. She was the last of her family, all alone on a now withered and an abandoned estate. The salvation of the world had come at a high price and when Saint Urbain had visited her to offer his condolences and praising her for her steadfastness where her family had failed, she did not feel flattered. She only felt angry.

Soon, she stopped attending communion and withdrew within the walls of her ancestral home. There she remained and when she slowly became ill, an incubated form of the plague from the Valley of Defilement, she was not surprised. It seemed the Demon Fog had poisoned her once strong family and even now it was gone, it still wanted to claim all of it.

Several doctors were dispatched to try and heal her, to no avail. It appeared miracles no longer worked now that the Old One was vanquished and no medicine could undo the years of accumulated grime that settled in God’s forgotten land. Selen was a dead woman walking and when Urbain kept promising he would pray for her and she could still get better if God willed it, she’d had enough. She sent everyone away, to await her death in quiet and peace.

It was for the best, she decided, but it was also a lonely fate. As she lay there, watching death creep closer every day, her thoughts often went towards her brother. She had acted in accordance with church law in leaving him behind in the Valley of Defilement, but as her faith was slipping by the hour, she was starting to wonder if she had done the right thing. 

If only Garl was here. Her brother had loved her and their parents above everything, even if he would abandon God. Unlike the Saint, he would hold her hand without speaking in religious platitudes. Her burden would be lighter with him by her side and she would be glad to know someone else was watching over the estate as she passed. If only she could see him one last time and speak to him, hold him… If only she could tell him how much she loved him.

Yet her little brother was gone. Lost in that wretched Valley. She was all alone and to better bear her impending end, all she could do was take refuge in the one thing that still came easy to her. Sleep and, with it, dreams.

Selen dreamed often. Induced by the increasing fever, she dreamed of many things as well. Her family, her childhood, demons slithering through the fog. Yet one dream slowly started to recur during those drawn out hours and it was one not based on a memory.

In her dreams, she would see a woman she had never seen before. She had dark skin and unruly black hair, a bright fire burning in her dark eyes. She was clad in white robes and armor and everything about her stature betrayed she was a warrior. There was a sense of confidence and irreverence about her, one that Selen could only envy in her weakened state.

Perhaps it was that desire that caused her to dream of this woman every night. As her body became weak and pained, in her dreams she chased this woman. There was nothing around them but darkness when she did. No beginning and no end, yet she never felt frightened or disturbed. All she cared about was following the woman, for no other reason than her intuition telling her she should.

Night after night, she ran after her. As the food and medicine lost their effect a little more, her sleep became deeper and her chase more fervent. She ran and ran, feeling more alive than she did in the waking world. Then, one night, after no longer being able to leave her bed, she went to sleep once more and, at last, the woman stood still.

She smiled at her, gently this time. “Well met, Selen. Do you wish to come with me?”

Selen nodded without hesitation. Why, she wasn’t certain. All she knew is that she didn’t want to wake up again. At least here she wasn’t alone and by now, she felt she somehow knew this woman. 

The woman took note of her gesture and grinned. “Very well. Let’s go then. I think you will like what I am going to show you.”

She started to walk and the light-skinned woman followed. Again, they were surrounded by darkness, but somehow, she felt calmer than she had ever been. She had traversed it many times now and its silence was comforting. What’s more, she somehow felt that this woman, whoever she was, knew the way.

They walked like what seemed for hours when, suddenly, there was a light. Bright and beautiful, created by a pale winter sun. Her heart started to beat rapidly when they went towards it, her eyes fixed on whatever would emerge beyond.

Soon, the light surrounded her on all sides. It was so bright it hurt her eyes and she had to take several moments to adjust. When she finally did, her mouth fell open. 

She was looking upon a beautiful world. All around her were vast, rich forests and tall, snowy mountains. It looked wild and rugged, but exciting and alive, a stark contrast to the desolated state of Boletaria. She was positively entranced and for a while, she just stood there admiring the view. 

“Do you like it here?”

The voice of the dark-skinned woman pulled her from her trance and she could only barely breathe out her words. “Where are we?”

“In the land of Tamriel. On the border between the province of Skyrim, land of the Nords, and the province of Hammerfell, where I am worshipped.”

Those words had her look up in confusion. “Who are you?”

She chuckled. “I am Leki, Goddess of Aberrant Swordsmanship. But it only makes sense that you do not know me. I do not think I am revered in your world.”

Selen listened to this explanation quietly, feeling hesitation deep within her. The church knight in her, having been taught there was only one God, wanted to shout blasphemy at such a claim. Still, there was something her that was…off and she certainly didn’t look like any kind of Demon she knew of. Also, how seriously should she take this claim? It was all a dream on a death bed…

“Would you wish to trade your world for this one?”

That question, asked so casually, threw her off even more, but the self-proclaimed Goddess didn’t flinch. “I can bring you here into a new, healthy body. You are a brave and fearless warrior woman like myself, Selen, and thus, I consider you worthy of that honor. Only say the word, and you can leave Boletaria behind.”

By now, the older Vinland sibling fought the urge to laugh. Was she truly so far gone that she was dreaming of escape now? That she could simply go to some better place and start over? It was rather pathetic. 

Still, since her state in the waking world was so miserable, she didn’t see why she shouldn’t oblige. None of this was likely real, after all and no one was ever harmed by an innocent, wish fulfillment in a dream. As long as she slept, she might as well indulge. Thus, she smiled and nodded.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

The Goddess nodded and suddenly, Selen could feel her hand on her forehead. It felt rough, like a warrior’s hand usually did. Leki muttered something in a language she couldn’t comprehend. A strange sensation started to come over her, an unpleasant tingling spreading all over her body. There was a mysterious ringing in her ears, one that quickly flowed together with the voice of the Goddess. 

“Then go, Selen Vinland. May you attain honor and victory in your new home.”

The next thing the light-skinned woman knew, she was coming to. She was feeling groggy, her mouth dry and her eyelids heavy. It was as if she had woke from a deep but refreshing sleep. That thought pleased her somewhat. After being ill for so long, she liked the idea of a day with less pain and suffering.

That thought caused her to rise, but whatever good mood she felt evaporated the moment she did. Selen quickly realized she wasn’t in her chambers or even at the family estate. Instead, she was still in the world she had entered in the dream.

She frowned. Was she still dreaming? After all, she didn’t recognize this place despite having traveled all of Boletaria, Latria and many other countries. Besides, she very clearly remembered going to sleep. It had to be a dream, but if so, then why was she so cold?

It was with no small amount of alarm that she realized she was naked. She looked around, horrified and shivering as a cold mist surrounded her. Immediately, childhood dreams about being nude in a hostile situation surfaced in her mind and panic had her move, desperately looking for something to cover herself as she walked down the path in front of her.

Her nerves were set alight by the rough stone under her feet and the moist air moving all around her. She shuddered at the cold, biting her lip as the stones painfully poked the soles of her feet. She quietly realized these things felt far too real and in the back of her mind, the terrifying thought occurred that this was not a dream at all…

Selen tried to shake off that thought. Whether this was real or imagined, she needed to find something to cover herself with. She pushed forward, nervously looking all around her if no one was there to see her. Uncertain as she was right now, she could not bear the embarrassment of that and only God knew what intentions people might have.

That fearful thought only increased when she stumbled upon a lifeless body lying by the side of the road. A woman, she noted, with blond hair, light skin and heavy scars, who likely crossed this border same as her. Even from where she stood, she could see it was splattered with blood. Despite the chills down her spine, she approached and while she expected a robbery, she could soon see claw and teeth marks on the body’s throat and arms. 

She winced. Clearly, there were dangerous animals in the area and seeing that the body looked fresh, they were likely still around. She quickly decided that if they were, she didn’t want to run across them naked and unarmed. Having made up her mind, she walked up to the corpse and got on her knees, bowing her head.

“Please forgive me…” 

With those words, she carefully started to remove the armor and clothes, strapping them onto her own body. The armor, studded leather, was notably oversized but she decided it was far better than nothing at all. After pondering for a little while, she decided to take the money and weaponry on the corpse as well. The weapon especially was an oddity, seemingly made of razor-sharp green glass, but she figured it would have to do. 

She quietly thanked the dead woman for her belongings and said a little prayer for her, determined not to let her sacrifice be in vain. She lamented the fact that she lacked the resources to give her a decent burial. She made up her mind. If she came across a town, she would ask the people there for help, or at least the materials to give her a dignified resting place.

Having made that decision, she then continued her journey, staying on the path and hurriedly making her way to wherever it led. She would nervously glance around for any bandits or wild animals, her hand around the handle of the sword at every corner. 

She must not have walked long, but it felt like an eternity before she came across the wooden walls of a town. She let out a happy whimper when she did and she practically started running towards it. The guards at the gate gave her a strange look, no doubt due to the blood on her clothes, but they didn’t seem hostile and so, she decided to talk to them.

“Excuse me, but I am lost. Where am I and does this town have a priest?”

One of the guards gave her an awkward and long look, before responding. “You are in Falkreath, capital of Falkreath Hold. And yes, we have a priest. Find the Altmer named Runil. He should be at the inn.”

Still in her somewhat distressed state, she practically ignored all the words she didn’t understand. She simply thanked the man and headed over to the inn. She called out the name giving to her and a strange man got up and approached. His appearance, with a greenish golden hue, pointy ears and alien features, set her off. Still, he seemed friendly.

“I am Runil. What can I do for you, stranger?”

Selen quickly decided to cast her doubts aside. “I hope I do not trouble you, father, but I got lost and came upon a corpse onto the road south from here. I took some of its possessions to survive, but… I simply not feel right leaving that woman there without a proper burial. I know it is a lot to ask, but…could you help me?”

Much to her surprise, the man smiled. “Of course. Few people honor unknown dead with the rites of Arkay anymore these days. Let me get my associate Kust and show me where the body is.”

She chose not to question his swift cooperation and simply waited for the man to get his friend. When the two of them were reunited, she led them down the road to where she found the corpse. They performed some strange rites over it, before the larger, more normal-looking man picked up the body and took it back to the village. During the walk, they asked her several things and she told him the truth that she was lost, didn’t know this woman, took her clothes when she lost her own and that it seemed she was attacked by wild animals, something the injuries on the corpse confirmed. 

Once back at the small house they called a temple, they started to prepare the body for burial. Their genuine care for the stranger touched Selen somehow. They wrapped her up in linen and worked to preserve her body, saying prayers all the while. Once they were done with their work, they put her away, explaining that they would ask around the Hold first before burying her, so any possible loved ones could still identify or possibly reclaim the body. If not, she would be interred in the large cemetery here. Once they were done, they told her they were returning to the inn and not knowing where else to go in this strange world, she decided to go there too.

The moment she stepped inside, all eyes were on her. Not surprising, since she was still covered in blood and clearly not from here. She could feel the curious gazes of the patrons burn in her back and she hurried to the counter. There, she parted with some coins taken from the corpse for a private room and a meal and she rapidly scrambled in there to clean up and be alone.

Away from prying eyes, she made up her mind. Once she had cleaned up, she would ask the priest for directions to the nearest store. There, she would get some clean clothes and a weapon of her own, after which she would hand over her current gear to the priest for the woman’s burial. After all, she had only taken her belongings out of necessity. It seemed only right to make certain she would be buried with them.

That seemed like a splendid plan, but just as she planned to remove the stained clothing, the door to her room was practically broken down. A few shouting soldiers came barging in, grabbing hold of her and dragging her out of the room. Shocked, she tried to resist, only for them to drag her out into the main hall more roughly.

“You! You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people! What is your defense?”

Selen couldn’t respond. What should she even say? She had only been in this town, in this odd world for that matter, for a very brief time. Aside from looting a corpse out of necessity, what could she have possibly done to warrant an arrest? It took her several moments to find her voice.

“On what charge?”

“One of our hunters just came back and said he was attacked by a dark-haired Nord bandit east of here! And here you are, a stranger dressed in a bandit’s garb and covered in blood, after we’ve run afoul of that scum in Helgen before! You are under arrest for the attempted robbery of a citizen of Falkreath! I repeat, what is your defense?”

The older Vinland listened, utterly flabbergasted. She assumed Helgen was some sort of place, but she wouldn’t know where it was to save her life. She was, however, quite certain she had not attacked a hunter. She was being falsely accused, but she had no way to possibly prove it.

“Stop it! This woman is innocent!”

Runil’s voice was loud enough to be heard over the crowd and she couldn’t believe the odd-looking priest would defend a stranger. “She cannot have come from Helgen. She was on the road south of here and those clothes belong to the dead woman we retrieved from there.”

The guard frowned. “So you’re saying she killed another person for their possessions as well?”

Runil shook his head, frustrated. “No, the dead woman was killed by wolves. Her corpse has the marks to prove it. This woman merely took her clothes for lack of her own and then came here to inform us of the woman’s death. She was with us the entire time when we recovered the body. She couldn’t have possibly been anywhere near Helgen or the road towards it in that timespan.”

The guard let out a small huff at that explanation. “And why didn’t she have any clothes in the first place?”

The odd priest rolled his eyes. “Does it matter? Get the hunter over here. Ask him if he recognizes her instead of drawing conclusions right away.”

Never had Selen been so happy to have a stranger take her side. What’s more, his words seemed to convince the guards. They brought in the person in question, who, with one quick glance, confirmed she was not the woman who attacked him despite fitting the general description. Almost immediately, the guards unhanded her, much to her relief, and the one who had charged her gave her a polite nod.

“My sincere apologies for the misunderstanding. We really thought you were one of them. All of Falkreath has been on edge since bandits settled in the ruins of Helgen.”

Part of Selen was still annoyed by how quick these townspeople had seemed to accuse her. Yet as she seemed to be in unfamiliar territory, she knew it was not wise to start a fight. As such, she decidedly to take it graciously, meanwhile prying for information.

“No harm done. But what is this about bandits? I am passing through and, I am afraid, not very familiar with these lands.”

The man was happy to inform her, perhaps as part of his atonement. “Helgen is a dilapidated town northeast of here. It was destroyed in a dragon attack a long time ago and the ruins are now overrun by bandits that cause us no end of trouble. So when you leave from here, best avoid that place.”

The older Vinland frowned. She didn’t understand why, but the man’s words stirred something in her. A sense of anger and pain from the past. As a warrior of the church in Boletaria, she had looked upon ravaged ruins far too many times. Bandits, demons, predatory animals. All kinds of vermin would nestle in the remains of mankind’s misery, even in this strange place it seemed.

She sighed to herself. Even now, she wasn’t sure if this was real or an extremely vivid dream, though she realized with alarm she was gradually leaning towards the former. Everything around her felt too real, everything made too much sense. She shuddered. If her soul had really been transposed into another realm by a strange goddess, that just about shattered her faith and anything else she had ever believed in…

She could practically feel tears well up at that thought alone, but something told her to bite those back. Now was not the time for mourning. Not here, in this strange place where she was so vulnerable. Instead, she decided, she needed her rest. Perhaps, she hoped, she would wake up in her own bed. 

So, rather than cry, she simply asked the man where the nearest store was, went there to buy some clothes and a sword and then turned over the rest of the dead woman’s possessions to Runil, so he could finally bury her. She then retreated to her room and fell asleep, finding some reprieve from her uncertain situation. 

Alas, when she woke up the next day from a dreamless sleep, she was still in the strange inn. She was still alone in this strange land, still stranded in a place far from home. This was the new reality and she would have to bear it…

It was with a turned stomach that she finally left the town, Falkreath she learned, that morning. To where, she didn’t know and she didn’t care. All she knew was that she wanted to get away from this morose place with its perpetual mist, to some place where she would be free to cry and think of what to do next.

Thus, she walked. For hours on end, she trudged down foreign paths and through thick woods. She didn’t care much about what direction she was going. All she wanted to do was walk without thinking.

What was she going to do now? She had been thrown into this strange world by an unknown God more powerful than her own and something told her she would never return home. If she was indeed stuck here, where was she to go? What point did her life have if she could no longer fight on behalf of her church?

She barely even noticed the gates as they rose up in the distance. She headed towards them without thinking, merely annoyed at finding an obstacle during her trek to nowhere. She simply pushed open the gates and, upon noting it was a ghost town, she decided to simply pass through, until she perhaps came upon some inhabited place.

“Lookee here, looks like we got ourselves a hero.”

The sound of voices finally had her look up. Several men and women slipped out of the shadows. Their appearance was rough and unkempt, marred by scars. All of them were armed and the look in their eyes betrayed they were spoiling for a fight. Bandits, she knew then and there. A sense of worry crept up on her. Looks like she had made it to Helgen…

Even so, she raised her head and spoke evenly. “I desire no trouble. I am unfamiliar here and merely passing through. Leave me be and I shall do the same.”

Instantly, she was met with laughter on all sides. One of them, a heavily armed woman whom she figured was the leader, approached. She flashed her weapon at her, grinning maliciously.

“You picked a bad time to get lost, friend.”

A sense of anger shot through Selen’s frame and she growled, producing her own sword. “Do not presume to call me “friend”. I have cut down your kind before and for less.” 

The woman didn’t miss the threat and her grin grew even more twisted. A fight was now inevitable. She quietly assessed her situation. No doubt these bandits thought they had an advantage in numbers. They were wrong. She was one of the finest warriors of the Boletarian Church. Were they to attack her, they would quickly find out why. 

Just then, the leader raised her axe, ready to strike her in the head. The Vinland sister responded immediately. With one swift movement of her sword, she deflected the blow. The weight of the axe called her opponent to stagger, exposed her side and the dagger strapped onto it. Selen grabbed it without second thought and just as her opponent charged in for another swing, she slammed her newfound weapon into her throat. 

There was complete silence, save for the woman choking on her own blood. She watched without emotion how she fell to the ground, before turning her gaze to the other bandits. There was shock, horror and surprise, as they stood petrified upon the sight before them. It was only when her eyes met theirs that their expressions morphed into something far more sinister.

“Time to die, hero!”

The remaining bandits charged at her from all sides, descending on her like a pack of Depraved Ones. She responded with equal viciousness. Her blade found the legs of the one closest to her and with the precision of a surgeon, she slit the tendons. She then turned to the next one, ducking underneath the mace he swung and impaling him through the chest. She worked her sword free in time to engage the incoming flurry of blows from the dead man’s comrades and with a war cry in honor of the Vinlands, she charged.

Iron met skin as she fought the bandits tooth and nail. Calling upon her years of training, she fought like a tigress, swift and fierce without mercy. Their brawn was meaningless before her skill and for every blow they landed on her, she paid them back tenfold. 

As she tore into the pack, she felt nothing but determination. There was a comfort in fighting, a familiarity that jerked her back to life and caring about her own fate. She was fighting for survival, for justice against those who’d feed on suffering. She felt confident, driven. As if Leki, the Goddess who brought her here and who claimed she was a patron of swordsmanship, was guiding her hand.

So she pushed on, hacking her way through every bandit that came at her. Picking up a discarded shield, she worked her way through, wounding and killing them with rapid strikes. Her aggression came through in every blow and soon, the tide was turning. Those who could still stand were fleeing the ruins, leaving Selen standing amidst the corpses victoriously. The church knight had not lost her edge and every nerve in her body celebrated that knowledge as she reveled in her triumph.

The aftermath, fatigue and pain, took several moments to kick in. She sank down onto the ground, hissing at the pain of her wounds. She sucked air into her burning lungs and wiped the sweat of her brow. As she sat there, recovering from battle, she realized that something had returned to her. An urge to fight, one she thought the plague had sapped from her so long ago…

As that surge of new life passed through her, she looked around, observing the ghost town the people in Falkreath had warned her about. It was a pitiful sight, the scars of destruction and dragonfire visible even now. The houses were ravaged, what was once a meadery burned to the ground. It was naught but an abandoned ruin, a memento of suffering and grief. 

And yet…

There was also something that drew her to it. A strange, inexplicable charm that somehow shone though the miserable appearance. Like cinders that could still be stoked into a bright, beautiful flame, if only someone was willing to try. A place that was once a small but bustling community, a jewel of a settlement capable of looking after its own needs. This place, she now realized, reminded her of the Vinland estate.

That casual observation, brought on by homesickness, had her still. A strange excitement settled in her abdomen and her heartbeat increased a little. A thought that should have been brief and fleeting remained in her head and grew in prominence with each passing moment. With every passing moment, it became harder to ignore until, in the end, it overtook any sense of hopelessness or lack of direction she felt.

That single thought caused her to get up and move. She walked over to one of the dead bandits and took their sword. It was of far better quality than her own and she figured it would serve her well. Besides, she had a purpose for her current weapon that was far more noble. 

Wiping off the blood, she planted it into a nearby tree stump. She placed some flowers growing between the ruins on it, then got down on her knees. She clasped her hands as in prayer and sent her thanks up to the Goddess Leki. The Boletarian in her reeled at her own blasphemy, but she felt she had to thank this woman, be she demon, god or false god, in some manner for opening her eyes. She only hoped this makeshift offering would please her regardless.

Once she had risen again, she started to collect evidence from the dead bandit corpses and, after some quick orientation, made her way back to Falkreath. She found her way back quite easily, simply following the signs she had not noticed before. Within an hour, she had managed to reach the town and for once, she was happy to see the foggy settlement.

The looks of the locals upon her return was priceless. They soon caught on to what she had set out to do simply by looking at the bloodied items she brought and when she mentioned Helgen, their response was instant. A bunch of guards rushed up and excitedly escorted her to a large house, saying the Jarl would be happy to speak to her.

Selen quietly assessed this information. She assumed the Jarl might be something of a leader figure in this community. When she was brought inside, that theory was quickly confirmed. A man sat there on his throne, assessing her with interest. She splayed out the items in front of him and a smile crept onto his face.

“Well, it seems someone finally worked up the nerve to get rid of those bandits holing up in Helgen. My guards told me of the incident, but it seems you are more than just some unlucky person at the wrong place and time.”

She took in his comment quietly. So this Jarl knew of her narrowly avoided arrest at the inn. That made sense; it was his duty to know what transpired on his lands. Seeing what she learned from the guards, the bandits at Helgen had long been a thorn in the side of him and his predecessor. 

She nodded and he continued. “I am Siddgeir, Jarl of Falkreath. I think a reward is in order for the service you have done my hold. So, what would you prefer? Gold? The right to own land in my hold? A position as Thane?”

Selen smiled. She already knew what she would ask. Cleansed in blood and battle in the ruins of Helgen, she had found purpose and the will to make it reality. While she could not shake uncertainty or a longing for home, she refused to give in to despair. She had set her goal she was going to attain in this strange new place, this land Leki had sent her to. Her decision was made. 

“I ask no coin of you, my Jarl. Nor land or a position at your court. All I ask is your permission and support to rebuild Helgen.”


	3. Heart of Lorkhan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garl Vinland fights against all hope.

“Dearest Astraea… I have failed you…”

Garl could hear his own last words ring in his ears. He had lost everything. As his body sank to the ground with his dying breath, all that went through his mind was that Astraea was left unprotected. This Slayer of Demons, this knight that had taken his life, would now surely take hers as well.

Never had he thought he could die in such anguish, lost in the Valley of Defilement. He didn’t fear death itself. He was a knight and that regularly put him in harm’s way. Still, the thought that he died failing to protect the woman he loved was unbearable. 

He fought the blackness that came over him as life left his body. He couldn’t go. Not yet. Not if it meant leaving Astraea behind. He couldn’t die knowing that she was about to perish at the hands of a wandering knight.

Yet death, it seemed, was unmoved by his silent pleas. Soon, his body stilled, there in the festering depths of the swamp. He could practically feel himself slip from his body, into a cold and unwelcome unknown.

Garl had been certain he’d be sentenced to non-existence upon his death. He had made peace with that knowledge long ago. The price to pay for learning that God was truly a Demon, to continue to love a woman who had profaned her body with a Demon’s Soul in the face of the deity’s cruelty. He had no regrets, even if he’d have to cease to exist.

Still, wherever he had ended up, he had not ceased to exist. His mind was still intact and in this place, there was just darkness, without beginning or end, without sound or smell. It was like walking through an endless dark room, as if he had walked into a patch of existence that was truly forsaken even by the Old One itself.

It was that thought that kept him walking, searching. He had to. Couldn’t think of anything else to do. If he was indeed in a place for the damned, then surely Astraea would be here too.

That hope pushed him forward, in a place where nothing else but that hope existed. He wanted to see her again, no matter what it took. He’d never been apart from Astraea, from the time they were children. He couldn’t bear the thought of being without her in death. So he walked and called out her name, wherever he went, lost in this place where time and space ceased to exist.

Then, after countless days or perhaps even months or years, there was something. A voice, ringing out amidst oblivion. It was not Astraea’s, but it was the first thing he’d heard in a long time. His mind, craving any kind of distraction from the nothing all around him, urged him to listen and to obey that single word that commanding voice said. 

“Come.”

Garl obeyed without question. What else could he do? Just the idea that there might be something beyond the dark was enough for him to move forward. He rushed in the direction of the sound, not even caring what awaited him as long as it was not darkness.

He practically stumbled over himself in order to reach it faster. Some part in the back of his brain warned him that there might be danger, but his desperation made him throw caution to the wind. He pressed on, practically crawling on all fours, wanting nothing more than to reach that voice calling to him.

Suddenly, there was a light. Bright and vivid, it soon drowned out the dark, burning away its vast expanse into something resembling existence. There was a world around him, alive with sights, sounds and smells. Everywhere around him he saw luminescent flowers and grass, tall trees and mountains under a bright sky. Unseen voices flowed together in a hymn of which the tongue was unfamiliar to him. A song of warriors, his heart told him, but for who? Yet these welcome sights paled to the one right in front of him.

There was a man right before his eyes. At least, he assumed it was a man. There was something about his presence that made him unable to look straight at him. Garl had to avert his eyes, heart pounding and his throat dry. What is possible, he wondered, that he was indeed looking upon the face of the God, or whatever passed for it now?

“Hail, great warrior.” 

He didn’t respond. What should one say in a situation such as this? He was in front of a being that was not of this world, possibly one that held his fate in his hand. Still, he was not yet sure of that and that finally moved him to speak.

“Are you God?”

The being nodded. “I am, though I am not _your_ God. I go by many names. Some might call me Shor. Others call me Shezarr, Sep or Lorkhaj. Yet most would know me as Lorkhan. I am the Missing God, presiding over the land of Sovngarde.”

The younger Vinland could feel himself frowning. He had never heard of this God, this Lorkhan. There was only one God he knew of, the deity he and Astraea had learned was in truth the Old One. Perhaps this man was an Arch Demon then, yet he didn’t seem particularly interested in taking his soul. 

Even so, there had to be a reason that he was standing here. In the eyes of his faith, he committed too many sins to count. Many that he were sure would also be unforgivable in a faith other than his own. That is, if he had already not committed blasphemy by not believing in this particular deity.

“Are you to judge me for how I have lived my life, Lord Lorkhan?”

Lorkhan shook his head. “I do not judge Men by how they lived, but how they died. For it is in the face of death that Man shows its true colors.”

Garl quietly took in this information. So this Lorkhan was a God of Death then. That didn’t bode well for him then. If he was indeed standing before a deity judging people on the manner of their dead, then his fate was sealed.

“Then what is in store for me, Lord Lorkhan?”

The deity smiled. “You are not from this world, Garl Vinland. Yet you died a heroic death, protecting the woman you loved. A soul like yours does not deserve Oblivion. You faced your end with conviction and therefore, you are worthy of entering Sovngarde.”

There it was again. This “Sovngarde”. What was this place? The way this deity spoke of it, it did not seem like a realm of punishment. Still, he wanted to know for certain.

“What is this Sovngarde?”

Suddenly, the world around him changed. The world around him melted away into another, so fast and sudden that he found himself becoming dizzy. He grit his teeth and tried to cover his eyes, until he finally found the courage to look again. When he did, his eyes widened.

He was no longer standing on the dark plains. The howling wind had given way to music and laughter. The smell of pines and grass was replaced with that of cooked meat and ale while the ethereal light of hearthfire cast a pleasant glow over him. 

He now stood in the middle of a giant hall. Its interior looked ancient as time itself, but it was clean and kept alit with fire and the unnatural light shining in through the large windows. Wherever he looks, there were banquets with the finest food fresh from the skewer and drink flowing from taps that never ran dry. He could see mock fights happen at the far corners, while others stood around and cheered.

A strange warmness settled inside of him upon seeing these sights. He couldn’t explain why, but there was…something about this place. It was not just welcoming. Rather, it felt like the end of a journey. The final destination of a long quest. For lack of a better word, Garl couldn’t help but sense this felt like…home.

The entity beside him seemed to notice his sentiment. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He still couldn’t bear to look directly at the deity and only barely cast him a sideways glance. Even so, he could make out a smile.

“You can stay here, if you so please. This is the final resting place of the brave and the stalwart. Even if you are not of the Ehlnofey, you are more than welcome to reside here as a warrior who died bravely.”

Garl could barely believe his ears. This was to be all his? This place, which was everything the Valley of Defilement was not? To be at rest and at peace, to consider all the hard labor he had provided finally done? He couldn’t believe it, _refused_ to believe it.

Lorkhan sensed his apprehension and pushed him some more. “Go if you so wish, Garl. Join the grand warriors of old in drinking mead and tests of mettle. Enter eternity and have your peace.”

Eternity.

The most human part of Garl, driven by instinct and logic, leaped at that insistence. Never had he been able to imagine that Paradise could be so simple, yet so fulfilling. No riches or splendor, but simply the comfort of comradery and your base needs met. A reward not for worship but for virtue. 

Yes, he wanted to remain here. In this safe place, far removed from filth and suffering. He had spent his entire life in the service of others, sacrificing his life and happiness for theirs. He had no regrets, but he was tired and worn. It was time for him to have his due.

And yet…

His heart would not have it. It cried out against staying, against simply sitting and resting on his laurels. For there was someone missing, whom no mead, banquet, song or skirmish could replace. He could not be content here if she was not there with him.

Astraea was not in Sovngarde. Just how he knew this, he wasn’t certain. All he knew is that it caused panic to surge deep within him. If he was here and she wasn’t, could it possibly mean that he was spared but she was damned?

The thought alone made him sick. No… He couldn’t stay. Not if she wasn’t there. Not if she was somewhere suffering either in life or death. Once again, he remembered his purpose. To find the woman he loved so desperately and to keep her safe, from whomever would harm her.

His determination returned to him, finally enabling him to answer. He turned to Lorkhan, still shielding his eyes with his hands. His decision was made.

“I appreciate your generosity, Lord Lorkhan, but I cannot.”

There was a silence between them as soon as he said that. He could practically feel surprise and shock radiate from the being beside him. It didn’t surprise him. How many would turn down such a fine place to reside after death? Yet he had his reasons and felt he had to explain.

“There is one, passed on like me, whom I sense is not here. My heart belongs to her. I cannot remain here if that means leaving her behind.”

He braced himself as these words left his mouth. After all, how would a god respond to a blasphemous act such as turning down their afterlife? Still, he held firm, ready to stand by his decision no matter the consequences.

He could hear Lorkhan sigh. “Indeed, your beloved Astraea is not here. Were it that I knew where she was. Your loyalty is admirable, but help you I cannot. I have no control over matters outside my realm and you are without body on Nirn. My deepest regrets, but I cannot offer you anything else but to stay here.”

The words sounded genuine, but Garl could feel his heart break at them. So he was indeed separated from Astraea. She was lost to him, either in this world or the next. That thought was enough to overwhelm him with grief. Yet it also overwhelmed him with anger. 

He turned to the deity, calm but defiant. “Then I will find my own way.”

Without so much as letting the being respond, he stepped away from him. He looked around the hall and soon, his eyes fell onto the gates nearby. He went towards them, grabbing an abandoned warhammer from a nearby table. He didn’t care what was out there. He’d brave the Old One itself if it meant finding his lover.

Then, just as he were to reach them, the gates swung open. A man, so tall he even towered over Garl, stepped inside. There was something stern and unmoving about him, to such an extent that even the younger Vinland felt a shiver go down his spine.

The man stepped towards him, straightening his back and speaking in a commanding tone. “None who have entered the Hall of Valor shall leave. Those who entertain such folly must pass by me first.”

In any other case, the man’s sternness and conviction might have given Garl pause. Now, he simply glared at him. Fraught with desperation and urgency, he could not care less who stood in his way. He was already dead. The worst had already happened. So he stared the man down, voice emotionless.

“And who may you be?”

The man didn’t miss his attitude and responded calmly. “I am Tsun, shield-thane to Shor. It is I who admits warriors to these hallowed halls. None walk the whalebone bridge between worlds unless I deem them worthy.”

A distasteful look worked his way onto the younger Vinland’s face. He didn’t miss the subtle implications of the man’s words. He was not to leave this final destination for the deceased. This was the last stop and there was no way back to the world of the living. Anyone who thought otherwise would be at this gatekeeper’s mercy.

Garl gave him a determined look, gripping his newfound warhammer tightly. “Then that makes you my foe. I am Garl Vinland, who wishes to leave this Paradise. Show me your mettle, Tsun of Sovngarde.”

Within moments, the music and cheering within the hall died. All eyes were turned towards him. People dropped whatever they were doing and gathered around them in a circle. He realized, however, that there was no disapproval in their eyes. Rather, it was eager anticipation.

He watched how Tsun took a huge battle axe off his back. There was a dangerous glint in his eye, a broad smirk on his previously emotionless face. For some reason, it unsettled Garl more than the righteous fury he thought his challenge would elicit.

“It has been a while since I have had a good fight. I accept your challenge!”

With those words, he lunged forward and brought his axe down. The younger Vinland only barely managed to step back. The giant blade missed him by a hair and he retaliated with a swing of his warhammer. The larger man used his weapon to block the swing, pushing Garl back.

Tsun was clearly not done and responded by uttering a strange spell. A powerful force erupted out of nowhere, staggering the shorter male. He then charged in for a series of quick and devastating attacks. Soon, the knight was on the defense, ducking and dodging to prevent the giant axe from taking his head off. Tsun was not playing around and something told him this giant of a man could easily kill him in one blow.

Still, having spent his lifetime facing down foes bigger and stronger, he refused to be intimidated. He simply baited the man into bringing his down axe once more and then quickly went on the offense. Eyeing a shield in the crowd, he yanked it from its owner and with it, he charged. He bashed the man in the face, before swinging the warhammer at the man’s legs. Tsun stumbled as he tried to avoid the blow and bared his teeth in an enthusiastic grin. 

All around him, the residents of Sovngarde were cheering and shouting. Clearly, it had been a long time since they had experienced entertainment such as this. They were screaming for more blood, more ferocity and for some reason, their lust for battle was infectious. Soon, Garl found himself growing bolder, lashing out more viciously at his opponent. This was a battle to leave this place and find Astraea and he was going to give it everything he had.

His adversary felt the same. Soon, they were circling each other, parrying and lunging at full strength. Tsun would try to land a blow and he’d retaliate, taunting and dodging at every turn. It quickly became clear they were evenly matched and this only made them more determined. 

So they fought, Tsun for his honor and Garl for Astraea. Every movement, every wound inflicted was for her. He didn’t care how hopeless it might be. He’d kill this strange godlike being if he had to…. Everyone in this Paradise of sorts if only he got to see her again… If those here were willing to die for conviction, he’d show them all how to live for it. How strong love could enable one to rival a God. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Tsun, and Shor, felt this and he could only hope they feared it.

Still, the lack of superiority on either side was causing the fight to drag on and as he pushed on, the younger Vinland could feel how his muscles started to ache. His breath came out in pants and his sight was becoming blurry. The cheers of the crowd caused his head to pound. His legs were starting to buckle and he fought to stay upright. Still, he wouldn’t back down. He couldn’t, knowing what depended on it.

Tsun seemed to notice this sense of stubbornness, but didn’t even think to show mercy. Within seconds, the man was on him, viciously hacking away with him with that giant war axe. By now, Garl was becoming too tired to dodge and he simply held up his shield to defend himself. His opponent simply responded by bringing his axe down again and again, furiously chipping away at the one thing he had for protection. 

All around him, he could hear the other deceased warriors gasp. Some started to shout, almost as if in worry, begging him to yield. Begging him not to break himself over a pointless fight. To simply accept his demise and wait out his time in bliss, until perhaps he would see his loved one again. With every swoop of the axe, their pleas became more urgent and with every flash of pain searing his muscles, Garl became more desperate.

Cornered and too tired to truly fight, his mind raced. He couldn’t give up. Not even when his strength was failing him. Not even when losing meant a peaceful afterlife. He had started this and he had to finish it, despite the odds. So he gathered all his wits, counting the time between each and every swing, and decided to resort to bravery over skill. So he waited, holding up his shield, until Tsun leaned back for another large overhead blow. Sucking air into his burning lungs, he charged and laughing in the face of fate, he struck.

The warhammer hit Tsun square in the chest. The impact was hard enough to knock the man of his feet. The crowd roared in shock and the god grunted as he tried to get up again, but Garl wasn’t giving him the opportunity. Without even thinking, he threw himself at the man, slamming him against the ground. He furiously pressed the handle of his warhammer against the man’s throat. His adversary struggled with a frightened look on his face, clearly not expecting his ferocity, but the knight couldn’t care less as he practically screamed at him.

“Yield! Yield and send me back! Yield!”

He kept shouting those words, over and over, in blind fury. He continued to do so even when some of the other warriors intervened and pulled him off Tsun. He cared nothing for their pleas to calm down, instead stating his demand more firmly. His fingers clutching tightly around the warhammer, ready to fight again if he had to, until a strange feeling came over him and he found himself sinking to his knees.

“You fought well, Garl Vinland.”

The sudden sound of Shor’s voice had him still. It was clearly audible amidst a strange ringing, his awe-inspiring form visible despite everything else being a haze. All of a sudden, the knight was starting to feel light-headed, as if his consciousness was being ripped from existence. That sensation alone was enough for him to panic and as he tried in vain to move, he found himself looking upon Shor’s smiling face.

“They will sing songs about you here. Garl Vinland, who fought Tsun and won. Garl Vinland, who earned the right to leave Sovngarde. May you find what you seek before we will see you again, at the end of your days… May my favor follow you and your errand…”

Garl never knew just how long he was floating amidst black nothingness. How long he existed between that state of waking and sleeping, only with his memories of Astraea to alleviate the monotony. All he knew was that when he woke up, he was naked in some small ruin that was overgrown with strange plants he had never seen before. The environment was indescribably beautiful in its unkempt, natural beauty, but his current state gave him little time to dwell on that.

He had jumped to his feet, covering himself and frantically assessing his environment. He was clearly no longer in Sovngarde, but he didn’t recognize this place as anywhere in Boletaria either. Worse, wherever he was, it seemed to be removed from anything resembling civilization. That thought struck him like another battle axe and for the very first time in everything he’d endured, he truly felt afraid.

That feeling only increased when he started to explore and found several skeletons, as well as two corpses at the entrance. The wounds on the bodies were unlike anything he had ever seen and they seemed to be covered in what looked strange, glowing hornets. Already feeling immensely vulnerable, he decided he didn’t want to find out what kind of being caused this. As such, he decided to grab what he could off the dead bodies and chest at the center of the ruin, particularly clothes and weapons, and then leave as quickly as he could. 

This strategy became his mantra for the next few days, which then slowly turned into a weeks and months of directionless wandering. His waking hours were occupied with nothing but hunting, fighting and finding his way and the nights consisted of fitful sleeps. Everywhere he went, he was surrounded by thick, hostile forests and it wasn’t long before he had become hopelessly lost. 

It certainly didn’t help that almost everything in these woods wanted to kill him as well. He was more than a match for the strange predatory creatures that tried to make him their meal or the bandits trying to rob him, but their strange shapes and races only served to make him feel more adrift and directionless. Any hope of finding help diminished with every hostile force he encountered and soon, he was blindly surviving, living off the land and what he acquired from his kills, man or beast.

In time, it even started to occur to him that he barely even thought of Astraea anymore. How could he, really? If this world was as unforgiving towards her as it was to him, then she likely wouldn’t have lasted long. If she was even here in the first place… For all he knew, this Dead God, this Shor, had simply sent him here to torment him, to look for the woman he loved without ever finding her, as punishment for defying the established order…

That thought, so cruel yet so logical, ate away whatever determination that kept him going. The idea that he had fought for nothing, that he might never see Astraea again, and remain trapped in this strange, dangerous world was becoming too much. Every day, it whittled away a little more of his resolve, dampened his spirits a little more. After a while, all he saw when looking at the path ahead was despair and enemies until, at last, he could not keep going any longer. He felt he had to give up or else this path he’d chosen would kill him all over again.

Eventually, he found a snowy cave and after clearing out the wolves inside, it was there that he settled. The cave was cold as ice, but it had water and berries growing outside and a found tent and bedroll made his stay there bearable. Every day, he would scavenge and hunt, allowing himself to go to sleep with a full stomach occasionally. It was an undignified, lonely way to live, but for some reason, he decided this was better than to simply die again. 

It was one faithful morning, when he once again awoke with aching muscles and shivering all over, that he decided to go out and hunt once more. He just desperately hoped luck would be on his side today and he’d be able to snag some food. A hare or perhaps some fish, maybe even some berries or some stale food looted off a corpse. Anything would do to stop the gnawing pain in his stomach.

As he sat at the waterside, trying to warm up some of the freezing cold water to drink it, he saw his own reflection and sighed. There was little left of his old self. The skin had become coarse and raw from the cold. His face was covered by a thick, long beard and his hair was ragged and matted. He had lost quite a bit of his bulk, growing skinnier from the lack of proper food. He was a mere shadow of himself and every day, he wore away a little more in his directionless existence. 

He turned away from the crushing sight, his heart aching, and readied himself to go outside. He quietly counted his arrows, lamenting how many he had lost with his poor shooting, and checked his crudely made spear and sword. Hopefully, he would succeed today at finding something to sustain himself with.

Suddenly, the noise of footsteps pulled him from his preparation. Realizing someone was inside his sanctuary, he rapidly grabbed his sword and spun in the direction of the noise. Instantly, he came face to face with a young man dressed in steel plate armor. He quickly responded by holding up his hands, dropping what looked like a pickaxe. His voice was soft and above all, surprised. 

“My apologies. I did not mean to disturb you. I thought this cave was abandoned.”

Something about the man’s strange calmness in the face of this situation set Garl off. He took a step closer. A small growl left his mouth, his voice sounding almost feral after not talking to someone for so long.

“It is not. Now get out of here.”

The man immediately obliged by taking a step back. “Very well. I do not wish to cause any trouble. Once again, I was told this place was empty except for wolves.” 

Again, Garl snarled, not in the mood for any excuses. “ I do not care what you were told. Just leave me be.”

Hardly had he spoken that sentence or the man suddenly looked him over with curiosity. “…Are you from Boletaria?”

That question, spoken so casually, had him lower his weapon in surprise. For a moment, he thought the man was messing with him. Still, the memory of home in a strange, hostile land made him take pause. 

“You know the land of Boletaria?”

The man nodded. “Yes, I come from there myself. The accent is unmistakable. I am Ostrava, formerly Ariona Allant if that says anything to you. May I ask your name?”

The younger Vinland frowned. He knew the name Ariona Allant. How he could he not? One had to be ignorant not to know the name of Boletaria’s crown prince. Still, whether he was truly the king’s son or merely a pretender, the fact he knew some basic things about his homeland made him a bit more willing to talk.

“Garl. Garl Vinland.”

Almost instantly, Ostrava’s eyes lit up in recognition. “A Vinland of West-Boletaria… The one who disappeared with Saint Astraea in the Valley of Defilement, am I correct? Looks like we’re both a long way from home then…”

By now, any doubts Garl may have had about the veracity of the man’s claims was quickly fading away. He sheathed his sword, indicating the end of any possible hostilities. The man took off his helmet and reached for the pouch on his belt, showing him a small smile. 

“Would you share some food and drink with me? It has been a long time since I spoke to someone from home...”

The promise of an easy meal was enough to entice him. Soon, he was dining on a delicious roasted goat leg, bread and wine. It tasted so good his stomach could barely handle it after endless months of nearly raw food and the intense tastes nearly made him dizzy. Still, he decided it was all worth it, especially seeing who provided the dinner.

Ostrava had a few interesting stories of his own to tell. For one, he believed his crazy tale about Sovngarde, even claiming he had been there himself and mentioning Tsun and Shor. Yet what truly caught his attention was that the story he told of ending up here was startlingly similar to his own. 

“So…is this what truly happens when we die? We are called by some God and then put into a new, strange world?”

Ostrava smiled, clearly at a loss himself. “I am not quite certain. You are the first person from Boletaria I have ever met here, so I think it only happens to a select few. Not just our world either, from the rumors I have heard. They say there lives a man in Solitude who records all these events, but I have not yet had the time to visit him.” 

“So, no chance of returning home then…”

Garl realized how pathetic he likely sounded. It mattered little to him. Whatever little glimmer of hope he had felt at meeting another person from Boletaria slipped right through his fingers once more. He really was stuck in this terrible place and forced to spend the remainder of his life here, alone…

Ostrava seemed to notice his defeat and smiled. “It is not so bad as you think here. It is certainly a little rough around the edges, but you get used to it. Besides, building a life out here is easy enough when you know what to do.”

Garl looked the knight over, noting his well-kempt appearance, frowning. “Then why are you out here, wandering around in the forest?”

He smiled. “Me, I am gathering ore to sell in Helgen. You can usually find plenty in caves and they pay a good price up there.”

That little bit of information took Garl aback. This was the first time he had ever heard of a town in this wretched new world. So it wasn’t just endless wilderness out here. That was something of a relief, he had to admit.

The younger man seemed to notice his sudden interest. “Perhaps you should go there with me. It’s not quite cosmopolitan, but it has an inn, a shop and a blacksmith. You could stay there for a while, perhaps find something to do. At any rate, it must be better than hiding out in this cave, is it not?”

Those invitation, coming so easily from his fellow Boletarian, was perhaps the best thing he had heard in a while. He didn’t have to think long. If this man could somehow lead him out of this damn forest and into civilization, then that wasn’t an offer he was going to refuse. 

“Give me a few moments to pack my meager belongings. In the meantime, take whatever ore you find in this place. It is yours.”

An easier deal that never been made. Some time later, Ostrava had dug his precious ore out of the cave and Garl had managed to gather his things. The two of them then set out to Helgen, The journey was a relatively short one and to simply see the wooden and stone walls rise up in the distance lifted his spirits somewhat. It indeed looked like a small town, one that was still in the process of rising from the ground, but it was far better than endless forests.

The guards let them in easily enough when Ostrava stated his business, despite their raised eyebrows at his own appearance. Soon, they were inside and the younger Vinland felt immense happiness at being surrounded by houses and people. His new companion said his farewells as he went off to sell his goods at the blacksmith’s and told him he’d perhaps see him at the inn later. Garl returned the courtesy, before heading off to explore the town.

Still, as he walked through the place, he couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable. People were staring at him wherever he went, no doubt due to his scraggly appearance. They probably thought he was a beggar, having come to leech of the town’s resources. They weren’t entirely wrong either. Despite having looted a few valuable items of corpses during his months in the wild, he didn’t have much, let alone enough for a lengthy stay. 

He tried his best to shrug it off, but as he found a well on the small town square and pulled up some water to drink, he couldn’t help but feel he was being followed. A stranger in armor was tracking him from the shadows, watching his every move, always just out of sight. It unnerved him and as he started to drink, he was sure to keep one hand on his blade.

As he sat there, drinking from a goblet he kept on his person, he finally felt the person approach. Their pace was fast and deliberate, as if the person was determined to come for him and for him only. The clicking of armor and weaponry only served to unnerve him more and not knowing what his odds were starting a fight here, he quickly emptied the goblet, got up and walked away.

The person was now right behind him, their steps becoming ever more urgent. By now, Garl was feeling really alarmed and started to move even faster. The person did the same and by now, he could feel panic taking over. Perhaps, it was a mistake to come here after all.

“Garl?”

The moment he heard his own name, he froze. How could he not? Just hearing his name in this world where nobody knew him was odd enough, but it was the voice itself that stopped him in his tracks. He’d recognize that voice anywhere…

Despite his head telling him it couldn’t be, he slowly turned around and looked upon the owner of the voice. His jaw dropped. It wasn’t possible. Not by conceivable measurement. Surely, a God like Shor was not _that_ merciful…

“Selen?”

His older sister nearly burst into tears when he said her name. She walked over to him, sharing the same look of disbelief that was on his own face. She stared at him from head to toe, her expression one of utter sadness at his state. He couldn’t think of saying anything to explain it either.

She was here. Right here in this bizarre new plane of existence, just like him. How, he couldn’t imagine if his life depended on it. She too must have passed through time and space to get here. And somehow, despite him looking like a mere shadow of himself, she had still recognized him…

He watched her with baited breath, unable to discern her true feelings. He had turned his back on their God, renounced his vows as a knight to do what he thought was right. By all customs of the Church of Boletaria, she should shun him and disown him. He didn’t deserve any pity or mercy on her part and he was willing to accept that. 

Yet just as he braced himself to face the consequences of this meeting, she reached out and took him into a loving embrace. She didn’t seem to care how dirty and disheveled he was, pressing her face into his chest as he could hear her cry. She held him with such a strong grip that for a moment, he thought she’d never let go.

“Hello, little brother… It is good to see you again…”

Those words, spoken with so much happiness, was what finally made him come apart. Tears started to run down his own face and he finally found himself able to put his arms around his sister. They just stood there like that, neither one of them caring that the whole town could see them. Why should they anyway?

The flicker of hope, one Garl long thought gone, was starting to revive. He hadn’t survived for nothing. Had not searched the darkness and escaped from Sovngarde for nothing. Someone he loved was here, just as glad to see him as he was to see her. That was enough to stop surviving and to try and start living again.

He had someone to love here, a semblance of the home he’d lost. That was enough for now. He’d stay and cherish that, crawl out of his terrible situation and, perhaps, in time find a place for himself and resume his quest to find Astraea. 

Even now, he was thinking about her. This little bit of luck amidst a sea of misfortune had returned his desire to fight, to try and find her against all the odds. He had already found back a loved one he never thought he’d see again. He didn’t see why he couldn’t hope to find one more.


	4. Saint of the Spurned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astraea finds the ostracized can be capable of great cruelty and great mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this story was based on a deleted mission from The Elder Scrolls: Skyrim, which was to find Chief Mauhulakh a new wife. I have always been kind of fascinated with the whole fucked up Daphne Du Maurier-esque soap opera going on in Narzulbur, including the cut content for the stronghold and decided it was an interesting kind of plot for Astraea to get involved with. I hope you enjoy.

No peace for the wicked.

That was a rather appropriate fate for a Demon, Astraea had to admit. To be sent where she was now. To be set adrift in a never-ending storm.

How she got here exactly, she wasn’t certain. The last thing she recalled was her death by her own hand. Sadness and despair, after seeing her lover Garl die before her eyes. She saw him fall at the hands of that wretched Slayer of Demons and it was there, at the end of such a long journey of witnessing suffering, that she could take no more. If these people would keep coming for her soul, even cutting down the man she loved, then she felt they might as well have it.

Perhaps it was that decision to take her own life that brought her here. Wherever she was, this place was foul and somehow even worse than the Valley of Defilement. That was a land abandoned by God. This looked like a place that had never known God at all.

No matter in what direction she looked, there was nothing but dust, ash and smoke. There was no ground, no sky or even air. Only her demonic nature allowed her to breathe and not fall into infinity. All these elements constantly swirled together into one endless, unnatural blizzard that rendered her unable to see even a few feet in front of her.

Garl wasn’t here.

For some reason, she was absolutely certain of it. Her lover was not on this plane or anywhere near it. After all, he was not the same as her. He had simply given everything up just to be with her. A man in love, putting his beloved before any reason. Perhaps that was somehow still worthy of divine forgiveness. She let out a small, sad smile. Maybe he wasn’t damned after all, even if she was. She could live with him not sharing her fate. She likely was lost, judging from where she had ended up.

Was this were Demons went after they died? Some infinite wasteland, deprived of anything resembling the mortal world and separated from those they loved? Or was this perhaps were the Demon Fog originated from and anyone touched by it returned to this place upon death? Either theory seemed valid to her, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

She took several steps forward, trying to see if there was anything at all beyond the suffocating storm. Yet every movement she made felt like pulling a giant weight and the silhouettes of buildings or creatures remained absent. It seemed this no man’s land was indeed not meant to be traversed nor offer reprieve. 

That thought was a terrible one, had it not occurred to her that perhaps, there was a way. Being what she was, she was more equipped to deal with an inhuman world than most were. After all, she was hardly a human anymore, even if she still felt like one.

With that thought in mind, she sat down and meditated. She sought the peace within her inner turmoil, calling upon her instinct to seek out life in this world. She was a Demon, after all. If there was one thing she should be able to detect, it were souls…

So she sat there, quietly scouring her environment with the Demon blood flowing through her veins. By the minute, she could feel herself becoming more aware of her surroundings. Throughout the layers of dust and ash and smoke, she scoured for something… The sound of a breath being taken. The beating of a heart. The squirming of a soul.

She searched for the longest time, alone with only her thoughts and fear. In the back of her mind, there was an increasing concern that she would indeed find nothing. That she really was alone and trapped in this hellish place. The thought was terrifying, but she refused to remotely consider it without being absolutely sure.

Then, after what seemed like endless hours, there was something. Something in the distance, odd and twisted, but most definitely alive. That notion had her perk up. So there was something in this world besides an engulfing storm after all.

She scrambled to her feet and drawing upon her instinct, she started to approach the newly found source of life. She tried to ignore the heaviness of every step she took, shrugging off discomfort as she had done so many times now. She was not the kind to lie down in defeat. If she had, she would have taken her life at after being abandoned by God years ago.

Thus, she followed the trail she had uncovered. She closed off her mind to anything else, moving forward without thinking. If there was indeed anything dangerous here, she would deal with it as it came.

After a while, she did indeed stumble upon signs of life. Strange, levitating creatures whose nature she could not even begin to comprehend. Just looking upon them frightened her, yet these creatures seemed to back away the moment she even took a step towards them. Perhaps they too seemed to sense she was a Demon…

Still, she decided not to question her luck and kept moving on, until finally, she reached what her Demon powers had likely picked up on. In the distance, standing out against the storm, she saw what looked like buildings. At least, she thought that was what they were. They were the size of palaces, but did not seem to be made of stone or even wood or clay. In fact, the buildings seemed to be made out of smoke. 

She reached out curiously, running her fingers over the strange material. She couldn’t describe the texture exactly, but it was solid and strong, likely capable of stopping a weapon or even a battering ram. It was the strangest thing she had ever seen, but right now, she didn’t have the time to care. It was a building and, from what her instincts told her, there was life inside.

That was enough to prompt her to go in through the large, open gates into the courtyard. It was a relief not to be in the midst of swirling ash, dust and smoke for once and she took a moment to assess her new surroundings. It lacked the elegance these kinds of homes usually had in Boletaria. There was something oddly tribal about the place, but she did not recognize the style of the furnishings. 

What more, this place was not quite…normal either. It was beautiful in an alien way, with a colorless sky and an eerie atmosphere. As if it existed in a past she had not experienced herself. Still, she figured she might be able to find…something in here, so she pressed on.

Indeed, as soon as she walked into the main room, she saw people. Or at least, she assumed that until she came close. These creatures had the basic build of a human being, but had greenish skin and were exceptionally muscular. Their faces looked almost simian and had small fangs protruding from the lower lip. They seemed to be engaged in heavy drinking, gorging on banquets and fighting each other in gruesome, bloody duels. Their unusual appearance and brutality frightened her and she could only wonder what kind of place she had ended up in.

It wasn’t long before the beings took notice of her as well. Those closest to her stopped what they were doing and simply stared at her. She could read many things in their strangely human eyes. Shock. Uncertainty. Confusion. Even indignation. It was all too clear that she was an unwanted quest in their domain, but something told her she couldn’t walk away now.

So Astraea moved forward, far more boldly than she felt. She tried her best to ignore how the mad feast around her grinded to a halt, how all eyes turned to her as she moved forward. If only she could find the master of this abode. Then perhaps, she could plead for help. 

After a while, she spied a large male of these people sitting on a throne. Figuring he might be the one she wanted to speak to, she approached. Like everyone else, he quickly saw her coming and looked her over with what seemed like surprise and anger. She quickly kneeled before him, hoping a show of humility might dispel any hostility.

“Are you the Lord of this palace?”

The man laughed, almost cruelly, his voice animalistic and gutteral. “Indeed I am. And you are a trespasser in my domain.”

She braced herself at this response, trying her best to remain calm as she spoke. “Forgive me, my Lord. I am quite uncertain of how I ended up here myself. All I beg of you is to tell me where I am and how to leave. If it pleases you.”

There was a silence and she could hear the creature grumble. “Stop groveling, girl. I have no need for bootlickers. Get up and look me in the eye.”

Astraea was quick to obey. She admonished herself to move neither fast nor slow, as if not governed by any fear. Besides, she told herself, she was a Demon and one who knew devastating miracles at that. She had a chance at defending herself if she had to.

It was with that knowledge that she looked up. She tried her best not to show any emotion, holding her head up high as she stared at the man. By now, she was getting used to the unusual features of the beings and her earlier fright was quickly waning. It was not some monster she was looking at; it was just some humanoid creature, clearly with the same intelligence and eloquence as her. To fear him was senseless.

Obviously, her resolve amused him. “What is your name, girl?”

She responded, calmly and without hesitation. “Astraea, my Lord. Formerly of House Pallis in West-Boletaria, now a Demon forsaken by all. Though my land may be as unfamiliar to you as yours is to mine.”

With every word she spoke, she felt herself become a little braver. This did not go unnoticed by the man. She could feel how he looked her over with interest and bewilderment. For a moment, she swore she even saw sadness and empathy. 

“I sense a twisted thing in you. Emptiness, betrayal, broken promises and anguish. Heh. Looks like you are right at home here. Though only Oblivion knows how you ended up here if you do not even know who I am…”

That observation somehow shook her more than any cruelty he could have dealt her. Most saw her as a monster or worse, a helpless victim. Yet this being so effortlessly assessed her inner turmoil that it was frightening. Just who, and what exactly, was he that he knew of the corruption brought on by despair?

As she asked herself this, the man then turned to his fellow creatures. “Make room for the lady. Give her some food and drink. I’m sure she has some interesting stories to tell.”

With their master’s assurance, the others went right back to their festivities. A few moved aside, allowing her a place to sit beside their Lord. She cautiously took it and politely took some of the food and drink she was offered. She munched on it, bracing herself for what it might be, only to calm down when she recognized the taste as horse meat. The drink she was offered was merely a strong ale. Whatever these beings were, they were obviously not cannibalistic savages. 

As she joined in the feast, her host introduced himself as Malacath. He was once a God named Trinimac, yet was now a being known in this world as a Daedric Prince, something quite similar to a Demon like she was. His sphere was the spurned and the ostracized. Those unwanted elsewhere. The creatures in the hall were no different. They were called Orsimer, Pariah Folk, and were his descendants who shared in the curse of corruption the Daedric Prince Boethiah had inflicted on him.

When she told him her story, he theorized that she might have ended up here because of her own brand of corruption. As his sphere was one of the abandoned and forgotten, then perhaps her soul had been drawn to it, allowing it to reawaken there once more. Of course, he admitted he could not possibly know the truth, but Astraea couldn’t help but feel his hypothesis at least made sense.

“Still, Astraea, I don’t think this sphere is your home. You are not Orsimer and I doubt our customs much suit you.”

Astraea remained quiet at this casual observation. He was right, of course. After spending several hours with his kind, she was convinced theirs was civilized culture in their own right. Yet it was one she was utterly unfamiliar with, innately violent and rather confusing. She’d rather not offend her host, but by now, she felt he’d appreciate her honesty much more than politeness.

“I am afraid so, Lord Malacath. Though I am very grateful for your hospitality towards me, I long for humankind. Especially those I have lost.”

He nodded. “I cannot help you regain what you have lost, but I could send you elsewhere if you would like. To a plane more like your home. You could live out your life there, if you so desire. Though I must be honest that your…nature might change should you awaken on Mundus.”

She looked him over. She wanted to jump at that offer, the loss of her powers be damned. She had never become a Demon out of a desire for power, after all. Still, nothing in this world was ever for free. She had lost her naïveté over this a long time ago. As such, she decided to be cautious. 

She smiled. “That would be wonderful, Lord Malacath. But alas, I have nothing to repay you with.”

He shook his head. “I disagree. Few besides deceased Orsimer ever pass through my realm. Which leaves those on Nirn somewhat…uninformed. Many follow my will, but they too sometimes fall victim to dogma. Not all are meant for life in a stronghold and some do not thrive outside of it. Who better to help them follow their destinies than one who spoke directly to me?”

Astraea quietly listened to what he said. So he wanted her to be his Prophet. To do his will on earth. She had to admit it was not quite different from her duties as a saint. In another time, she would have gladly taken on such a task or at least felt she should. Now, she was not so sure. She had quite soured on the life of a virginal woman put on a pedestal, a living relic for people to worship and gawk at. Malacath seemed to notice this and shook his head.

“I ask no sacrifice on your part. I have no need for martyrs. I will send you to a plane more suited to you and you can live out your life. In return, you will help my followers in need should you come across them, from one spurned to another, open their eyes to my will. That is about as fair a trade as you will get from a Daedric Prince.”

Astraea stared straight back at him, trying to assess his sincerity. She had to admit his offer was tempting. Yet she had no idea where she would end up nor, if she would indeed play Malacath’s aide, how the Orsimer on the mortal plane would receive her. Still, she knew she couldn’t stay here forever and that was the final push she needed.

“Yes, Lord Malacath. I accept your terms.”

He grinned, clearly pleased to have searched an accord. “Smart girl. Now, I will sent you to my shrine in a place called Skyrim, where you will find everything you need. I will also mark you as Blood-Kin. That way, my followers know you are to be trusted. From there, you'll be on your own.”

She nodded, only to gasp when she suddenly felt his rough hand clasp over her face. “Farewell, Astraea of Boletaria. It was fun having you here.”

Before she could stop him, there was a flash and it felt like she was yanked back with tremendous force. The world around her was gray, then filled with ash and dust once more, until fading into a kaleidoscope of colors. They danced around her, rendering her dizzy and disorientated, until soon, she could only close her eyes and wait for it to stop.

She did not know how long she remained like this. How long she soared through time and space beyond her comprehension. When she came to, however, the colors were gone and so was the gray, ash and smoke. There was just cold and snow, frost biting into her naked skin, and a plethora of smells and sounds she had never smelled or heard before in her life.

She shot up, practically shrieking at her nudity and dancing around to prevent the snow’s chill from nipping at her toes. She looked around, panicked, only for her eyes to fall onto a shadow behind her. She whipped around, only to calm somewhat.

Behind her was a statue she instantly recognized as Malacath. The Daedric Prince had apparently kept his word and deposited her at his shrine, though it was beyond her why she had lost her clothes in the process. Yet, she recalled him saying she would find everything she needed here and as she started to shake, she decided to look around and see if he was truthful on that as well.

A gasp of relief left her mouth when she discovered a chest mere steps away from her. She practically ran over and opened it, only to marvel at the items inside. There were a few gems, potions and coins, a silver necklace, a dagger, a mace, gauntlets and, much to her relief, what looked like mage robes and simple fur boots. She took the garments and put them on, feeling so much better being enveloped by something warm. 

Once dressed, she looked back at the other items. The coins, potions jewelry and gems could come in handy and while she was not well-versed in weapon use, the dagger would make her feel safer. She had no use for heavy weapons or armor, but she decided to take them as well. Perhaps, she figured, she could trade them for other things, should she come across someone.

Already feeling a lot better than mere minutes ago, she then looked around the clearing. She stiffened a little at the sight. Whatever had happened here wasn’t pretty. She saw the corpse of an Orsimer lying not too far away from her, as well as the corpse of a huge, gray-skinned being… A giant of sorts, she guessed, but she truly didn’t want to think about it for very long. 

Biting back any sense of fear or disgust, she walked over to the bodies and searched them for anything valuable, adding the items to her collection. She also examined the content of the large hide sacks, discovering it was an unfamiliar kind of cheese when tasting it, and decided to take that too. Then she went back to the shrine, quietly thanking Malacath for his generosity. With those formalities observed, she then set herself to getting out of this place as swiftly as she could.

Getting out of the cave surrounding the clearing thankfully proved easier than she thought. The path out was easy to find and while she found a few living giants along the way, they seemed content to leave her be when she kept her distance. Soon, she was outside and never before had deciduous forests looked so beautiful to her. She almost happily walked into this strange world, curious as to what awaited her.

The first town she wandered upon was a place named Riften. Initially, she was very relieved to see it was populated by other humans as well. The city, however, was a dirty, corrupted sort and soon, she found herself retreating to the local inn and unsure of what to do or who to trust. Especially when she carefully let her homeland of Boletaria slip and Keerava, a strange lizard woman who was the innkeeper, looked at her as if she were insane.

A pale man with a large nose, however, had perked up at the word and came over. In exchange for her silver necklace, he told her of a man in Solitude named Solaire who was apparently somewhat of an expert in oddly transplanted souls. He gave her directions and told her she could take a carriage, found at the city gate. The last one that day was traveling to a place named Windhelm, but he was sure she could easily get one to Solitude there. When she inquired about any Orcs, he had mentioned a stronghold called Narzulbur near the city, headed by Chief Mauhulakh who ran an ore mine. She had thanked him kindly for his help and after quickly selling the mace to the local blacksmith, she was soon on the carriage headed to Windhelm.

She was not the only one on the ride. Sitting across from her was an Orsimer woman, dressed in simple rough-spun clothes. She seemed quiet, however, and not in the mood for conversation. As such, Astraea decided not to bother her and simply looked over the items she found. As she looked at the gauntlets, however, a rough voice suddenly spoke up.

“Those are some good gauntlets. Orc-made.”

Surprised that the Orc was now interested in talking, Astraea responded with an embarrassed smile. “I will assume you are right. I found these in a cave. I do not know much about weaponry.”

The she-Orc smirked. “Shame. I’d be glad to possess something so fine.”

That remark caught her intention and she decided to take a chance where she saw one. “Well, I am willing to trade them, if you are interested. I do not have much use for them.”

Her fellow passenger perked up. “Would foods and furs suit you?”

She smiled, excitedly. “Oh yes, food especially. I am sick of lumpy cheese at any rate.”

The Orsimer woman seemed quite content with that arrangement. Soon, Astraea found herself with fresh game and some drink, as well as some furs which she was certain she could sell to a tanner at some point. She happily handed over the gauntlets to their new owner and it soon appeared the transaction had made the Orsimer woman more willing to talk. 

“Well met, stranger. I am Uglarz, huntress of all. Are you headed to Windhelm as well?”

Astraea smiled and shook her head. “Nice to meet you, Uglarz. I am Astraea. And no, I intend to travel to Solitude. Though I may actually visit Narzulbur near Windhelm.”

She was met with a smile. “Ah, so you are Blood-Kin. I know Narzulbur. It was my home. But I left. The woods felt more alive, at least for a time.”

The former holy woman nodded. “Well, not every Orc is at home in a stronghold. Some fulfill Malacath’s will much better outside of it. Besides, no society can grow strong without going outside and learning.”

An amused smile was her answer. “I wish more people saw it that way. But stronghold Orcs like keeping to the old ways and to themselves. Those orcs trading knowledge with outsiders? Ha! Now that I would like to see. I might go back there someday.”

Astraea shook her head, thinking of what the man in Riften told her. “Well, I heard those in Narzulbur do. That Chief Mauhulakh runs a mine that does quite well. So here is hoping he doesn’t mind lending some hospitality to wandering Blood-Kin.”

The she-Orc gave her a surprised look, then burst into laughter. “Mauhulakh. I remember him. Little, scrawny fellow. So he is Chief now and selling ore? Always thought that mine had more to it. Just like Mauhulakh to smash his way to good fortune...”

There was a fond smile on her face and after a short silence, she let out a sigh. “I’m glad for this meeting, Astraea. I guess I won’t have to seek employment in Windhelm after all. I’m going back to Narzulbur. Want to see how it’s come. Do come with me. If you're Blood-Kin, you’re welcome.” 

Surprised, but happy to have an actual invitation, Astraea gave her a bright smile. “I most certainly will.”

The journey to Windhelm was thankfully a short one thanks to the good company and it was at sunset that she and Uglarz found themselves entering Narzulbur. They were greeted warmly by Chief Mauhulakh, especially when it turned out Uglarz was a childhood friend of his. Once the she-Orc pointed out Astraea was with her, she was happily given shelter as well, free to wander around the stronghold as she saw fit.

She decided to make good use of her privileges and quickly approached an Orc she saw working the forge. “Um, excuse me? Do you also buy armor and materials?”

The male Orc looked her over and nodded, smiling his fangs bare. “Of course. I can always use new materials. Let’s trade.”

Astraea smiled, presenting some of the armor she brought along as well as the furs. The blacksmith, Dushnamub, assessed them, counting out appropriate amounts of coin for each item. He also advised her to find a better weapon than her iron dagger, recommending steel or Orcish metal, ebony if she could afford it. She happily took all the advice he gave her and was content to make small talk. There was a comfortable atmosphere between them, until a female Orc walked by and his expression darkened.

She could feel the sudden change in atmosphere, but decided to ignore it. Perhaps the blacksmith simply didn't like this person. Who was she to judge if that was the case? Besides, it was none of her business. At least, so she thought.

“Haven’t you seen how my aunts act with my father? It’s beyond strange.”

The sudden question caught her off guard and she simply smiled politely. “I do not think I have been around long enough to see anything odd.”

Dushnamub let out a sigh. “I know I should not speak ill of them. They raised me, after all. I never knew my mother, but I doubt she ever acted as affectionate with my father as Yatul and Bolar do. My sister is blind. I told her not to spend so much time with Yatul, but she won’t listen. Thinks she's nice.”

Astraea could only listen to his words in absolute silence. She had always been close to her own family and right now, lost in a strange land, she missed them bitterly. She couldn’t imagine anyone feeling so hateful towards their own blood, much less the people who raised them. She was even more baffled why he would divulge all this to a virtual stranger. Perhaps she should brush it off, but she decided not to.

“So why are you telling me, an outsider, this? Why not bring it up with your father?”

He gave her a sad look. “I’m telling you _because_ you’re an outsider. You will leave here again soon. My family won’t. And if he doesn’t believe me, I have to live with the consequences… No, I’ll hold my peace until I can find a stronghold of my own and I want it to be somewhere far away from Narzulbur. Until then, however, I need to ease my mind sometimes. Feel free to forget everything I just said. ”

With that, he continued to count out the coin and handed it to her. “Here you go, 125 septims. It was nice doing business with you. Come see me if you need arms or armor.”

With that, he turned back to his forge, leaving Astraea standing there confused and alarmed. Stumped at what to do for several moments, she opted to walk away and simply find some place to freshen up before continuing her exploration. She figured the best thing she could do was simply shrug it off, stay the night and then continue on her way tomorrow. Even if she was Blood-Kin, it was not her business.

Still, that mentality was easier said than done. As she attended dinner with the rest of the residents that night, Dushnamub’s words came back to her as she watched the family. Mauhulakh lavished attention on Uglarz, even being affectionate with her, only to constantly be interrupted by his aunts Yatul and Bolar. She couldn’t help but notice the interaction of the two women with their nephew, noting how it was nothing like how she had interacted with her own aunts and uncles. If anything, it reminded her far more of how she, as a young girl, always tried to get Garl’s attention…

That thought instantly caused a disgusted shiver to creep across her spine. Her mind went back to the graves she found of Mauhulakh’s previous wives and suddenly, she found it very hard to get the food she was offered down her throat. She did her best not to let it show, however, and tried to simply ignore the entire situation best she could. Afterwards, she quietly excused herself to get some fresh air. The walk calmed her nerves somewhat and for a while, she forgot about the entire situation. Instead, she allowed her mind to wander towards home, her family, Garl... She was glad she was alone that moment. She would't appreciate these strangers seeing her sadness: she doubted they'd even understand. Processing her thoughts in solitude was a welcome distraction and it was only after an hour or so that she decided she was ready to return to the longhouse. Yet as she moved through the nighttime shadows, she suddenly realized she was not alone.

Several feet ahead of her, under the night sky, were Yatul and Urog, the Chiefs daughter. They looked like they were preparing for tomorrow’s hunt and she simply decided to let them be and head back inside. At least, until she caught part of the conversation. 

“What’s the most dangerous beast you’ve ever killed?”

The older Orc smiled. “Oh, probably a troll.”

The girl’s eyes lit up. “They’re fearsome!”

“They are indeed. Nothing like your mother, though!”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying! But you didn’t kill her. That’s what I was asking.”

Even in the relative darkness, Astraea saw the taller She-Orc stiffen. “Oh, of course. My mistake.”

The younger one didn’t seem to notice the pause. “Still, Uglarz may become my new stepmother. Father has been talking about her for years and how sad he was when she ran off. Now she is back, he might actually consider taking her for a wife.”

Instantly, Yatul huffed. “Well at least now Mauhulakh has nothing to whine about. Until this one dies, too.”

Having said this, she continued working on her gear in silence. The two Orsimer were so engrossed in their work that they didn’t notice how Astraea had quietly slipped away again, face pale and heart pounding. She quickly hid in a silent corner, realizing in horror there was no way she had just mistaken the words she just heard. 

It took her several moments to regain her composure, but her mind kept racing. Her conversation with Dushnamub was no longer something she could ignore now. There was something foul going on in this stronghold and if it went unaddressed, it might claim a great many more lives. How she could prevent it, she was not yet certain. All she knew was that she had to talk to Uglarz. 

Astraea found her traveling companion back inside the stronghold, still reminiscing with Mauhulakh about times past. She carefully approached, apologizing and asking if she could have a word with her. Uglarz seemed annoyed to be pulled away, but nonetheless obliged and followed her to a quiet corner of the longhouse. 

She smiled. “You were right about this place. And about Mauhulakh. This was worth coming back for.”

Astraea winced. It pained her to see her traveling companion so happy, knowing that what she would say would instantly vanquish that happiness. Still, this was a matter of life or death and she couldn’t afford to wait. 

“Uglarz. I do not know how to tell you this, but...do you not think Mauhulakh’s aunts act…strange?”

The she-Orc frowned for a moment, only to nod. “Yes, now you mention it. They don’t seem to like me very much. Didn’t want Mauhulakh to even talk to me, pulling on him like a pup begging for its master’s attention… It was odd.”

Astraea swallowed, deciding to be frank and not waste time. “I think there is a reason for that. I…I think they might have killed his previous wives.”

Instantly, a chilling silence settled between the two women. Despite having a different skin color, the former holy woman swore the Orc went pale. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. She could see how her brain scrambled, only to for several pieces inside it to fall back into place. She could instantly tell what the taller female was thinking. After all, she knew very well she had essentially implied that Uglarz might be the next one to die very soon if she stayed. Astraea expected her to come apart at any second, but she simply took a deep breath and composed herself. 

“Do you have any proof?”

The human female let out a sigh. “Were it that I had. Just some talk I overheard, but nothing concrete. But I know I will not be heard if it is simply my word against theirs.”

Her traveling companion thought for a few seconds, almost making her worry that she didn't believe her, before speaking again. “I think we should stay awake tonight. Snoop around. See what we can learn.”

Astraea only needed a second to agree to this proposal. Any thoughts of simply “live and let live” were off the table now. She had always been immensely compassionate and even if she barely knew all of these people, she couldn’t turn her back on them. She wasn’t going to leave until she absolutely certain no one else would suffer an untimely death, especially not this Orc woman who had shown her nothing but kindness. As such, they went to bed that night as if nothing had happened, but rather than give in to sleep, they remained awake until the time was right to search for answers.

Thus, when the moon was at its brightest, both she and Uglarz both slipped out of their beds and wandered outside. They had learned that Yatul would keep watch tonight and were curious if anything suspicious would occur. They found a spot in the shadows and, befitting of their natures as a saint and a huntress, they waited patiently.

It must have taken hours of remaining motionless before something happened. The door to the longhouse creaked open. Bolar came out, fully garbed, heading to a work station across from the building. As soon as Yatul caught sight of her, she practically stomped over. The other woman saw her coming and as they sat down under the awning, they started talking.

“I talked to Urog. I hear Mauhulakh is wandering again. He’s after a new woman. That tramp from the forest, to be precise.”

The older Orc shrugged. “He’s lonely. What do you expect?”

A huff was her response. “No matter. You’ll take care of things, like you always have.”

There was an uncomfortable silence between the women and not just those under the awning. Astraea could feel Uglarz stare at her and then back at the target of their eavesdropping. She motioned the Orc to stay put, waiting to see if anything else would be said. She could hear how Bolar's voice took on a pained tone.

“Please, let’s not have it come to that.”

“True…we could simply make sure she never reaches Narzulbur. She loves hunting, after all. An accident is easy enough.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

By now, the younger Orc was getting annoyed. “If he does show up with a bride, likely her, we have to move quickly.”

Bolar shot her a glare. “Once she’s with child, I will not harm her.”

A sneer was her response. “Yes, you’ve made that quite clear in the past. And now we have Urog and Dushnamub because of your weakness.”

“They are good, loyal children.”

Yatul scoffed. “They squander their father’s love. We can’t dally this time.”

As they spoke, their voices turning to snarls, Astraea and Uglarz could only stare at each other in wide-eyed horror. This was more damning evidence than they could have ever hoped for. These two were behind every untimely death, just as the human female expected. She could feel a sting in her chest. She could only imagine how horribly all these innocent women died, perhaps even knowing who killed them but never heard…

Worse, she realized, they might still not be heard. After all, if Mauhulakh would not disregard them outright, he was far more likely to trust his aunts and they would deny everything. No, he needed to hear them utter the words themselves and as she sat there, her terror growing and blood boiling, she came up with a plan.

She turned to Uglarz. “Go inside, wake Mauhulakh and get him here. He needs to hear this.”

The Orc frowned. “How can we make sure he does?”

All Astraea did was grin. “Leave that to me.”

Uglarz nodded and quickly crawled away. In the meantime, Astraea got up, straightening her back and walking towards the two older Orcs. She made no effort to be quiet, wanting to make certain she was heard and seen. She took a deep breath and, gathering all her courage, she spoke out loud.

“You! So it was you! You murdered all of Mauhulakh’s wives! I knew there was something suspicious about you from the moment I saw you sidling up to him in the longhouse!”

Immediately, the female Orcs froze, looking over their shoulders in her direction. In the moonlight, she could see shocked, angry looks on their faces. For a brief moment, she was certain they were going to deny everything and quickly continued.

“I just heard everything. You play the loving aunts, but you are nothing but cold-blooded murderers! You killed them, in childbirth, in the woods and in their own homes! You comforted your nephew in public but celebrated in secret because you did not have to share him or lose power! You are naught but sick, twisted snakes and I will make sure he finds out all about it!”

She remained where she was, a determined look on her face. The Orcs continued to stare at her, still clearly not expecting that anyone had overheard them. Several seconds passed like that, only for Yatul to burst out into laughter.

“And you think he will actually believe you? You’re just some outsider who got in our good graces. Do you honestly think he would believe you over his own aunts? He trusts us blindly, like a chick its mother. We could murder his own children, Mauhulakh himself, and he would still never suspect us! Besides, he’s not even going to hear you!”

With those words, she drew a war axe and sprinted over. In that split second of witnessing her murderous fury, Astraea wondered if she should stand her ground or run. Whatever her choice, it was made too late as Yatul was upon her. A hand closed around her throat, hard enough to cut off her air supply and a sharp edge burrowed into her skin. She could vaguely heard Bolar scream something about not killing her here as it would leave evidence, but what truly caught her attention was the vicious, almost gleeful rage in the other Orc’s eyes.

“You should have minded your own business, outsider! We killed them all. Bolar and me. Durzim, Volrog, Boresh, Galda… We’ll kill Uglarz too if we have to and make sure she dies screaming like the second one. I can kill Orcs easily enough. They are an actual challenge compared to how easily can break your frail, little human neck!”

Astraea fought the urge not to simply spit this deplorable woman in the face. This sick murderess, who didn't even think twice to kill her newphew's wives to maintain power in the stronghold and feign innocence to the man's face. Were she still a Demon, she would have obliterated this sorry excuse for an Orsimer where she stood. Still, she realized, she didn't need to. Yatul had already given her exactly what she wanted.

“You killed them?”

Even though her sight was getting vague and her ears were ringing, Astraea could still make out Mauhulakh’s thunderous voice. The moment she registered it, the grip around her throat let up and she tumbled to the ground. She inhaled sharply, her throat immensely sore, barely even noticing that Uglarz had rushed towards her and helped her up. She didn’t even protest as the Orc pushed a flask of some kind against her mouth, forcing her to drink down a potion that took away the pain somewhat. Instead, she tried to keep her blurry eyes on the spectacle that was unfolding before her eyes.

To say that Yatul and Bolar looked frightened would be an understatement. They looked like they were facing the wrath of Malacath himself. The commotion had also woken up the others and soon, a crowd was gathering to witness the events. By now, the younger she-Orc had dropped her axe and for the first time ever, Astraea detected panic in her voice. Were she indeed a better person, she might not have relished in it. 

“Mauhulakh… This is not what it looks like…”

The Orc chief growled. “Then what is it? How should it look when I hear you confess that you murdered my wives? That the family I loved, I blindly trusted, have murdered my mates time and time again and then feigned concern and sympathy to my face? Never in the world had I thought my own blood so twisted!”

By now, Bolar spoke as well, practically prostrating herself. “Y-you don’t understand, Mauhulakh. Your wives… They were weak, greedy, only after your fortune. We love you, more than they ever did. We only wanted what was best for you!”

The male Orc wasn’t having any of it. “What was best for me? You thought it was best for me to spend most of my life in mourning? Alone? Wondering why the Gods had cursed me? Oh, but it was clearly good for you, being the most influential women in the stronghold, never having to relinquish the position. Well, not anymore! I have been blind long enough! My wives have waited for justice long enough!”

Bolar's expression was a mask of fear, but somehow, she simply nodded. “I am willing to play the blood price, my Chief. Anything for your forgiveness.”

Yatul chimed in, going one step further, head held high. “If you would kill us, then do it. Give us a good warrior’s death, like an Orc would!”

They jerked when Mauhulakh let out a hollow laugh. “You think it will be that easy? Even if you both bled to death four times over, it wouldn’t be enough for what you did! And death is too kind for you! No! I banish you from Narzulbur and I will send word to all other strongholds to let them know what you did! Let your shame be known to the world as murderers of your own kin! You will never set foot in a stronghold again!”

Those words, spoken with a cold finality, were what made the two Orc women undone. Now even Yatul was on all fours, begging and pleading for the mercy of death. They screamed and they cried, even having the nerve to call upon their blood relations for a quicker, kinder fate. Their nephew, however, was deaf to their pleas and Astraea watched on as the others started to drag them to the gates and tossed them outside, throwing sticks, stones and anything else they could find until the women finally turned tail and ran. They did, wailing and cursing as they disappeared into the woods.

As they did, Astraea quietly turned to Uglarz, asking her what exactly had occurred in terms of justice. The huntress quickly explained that "prison" was an unknown concept to Orcs and in case of a crime, there were two options. A blood price meant that blood was drawn until the victim was satisfied. The other option was a quick death that they could face bravely and with their dignity intact, as Malacath would have wanted it. To be banished was an unbearable fate for an Orc of the strongholds, akin to losing their entire life but being forced to live. With this new knowledge in mind, the former holy woman shuddered. Yatul and Bolar indeed paid dearly for their foul deeds.

It barely even registered when Mauhulakh approached her and Uglarz. The dark look on his face rendered her utterly quiet. Not knowing what to say or do, she simply decided to wait for him to act.

“You… I cannot say you've made me happy… But I must also thank you, for showing me the truth about my aunts… My poor wives… To think that…”

He stayed quiet for a moment, clearly trying to pull himself together. “I will see to it that you are richly rewarded. I’ll give you enough gold and supplies to make it to Solitude and you're always welcome here. You’ve lifted a curse from us and for that, we are grateful. We can only hope you find what you’re looking for as well.”

Astraea could only nod in response to this. As far as she was concerned, she needed no reward. She had simply done what was right by not walking away from injustice. Still, she was alone and lost in a plane of existence she barely knew, forever separated from the ones she loved. She could truly use any support these people were willing to give her. 

As such, she decided to simply accept it and let her sense of principle waver, if only for once. Besides, after all this, she wanted nothing more than to simply have Uglarz help her inside. She needed to rest and she wanted to get to Solitude as quickly as she could. At least, as much as she could allow herself to sleep, after the horrifying events of the night.

Even so, even her long jaded heart was moved when the entire stronghold came to see her off the next morning. They all gave her gifts and wished her well, with Mauhulakh and Uglarz joking they hoped she’d attend should there be a wedding. She was particularly touched when even solitary Dushnamub approached her, asking for her iron dagger and replacing it with an expensive ebony one, his own quiet way of thanking her. She was equally thankful to them for their kindness and hospitality and after several heartfelt farewells, she too felt a little heartache as she finally walked down the road to Windhelm.

The man in Riften had been right. Finding a carriage to Solitude was easy enough and with the rewards the Orcs had given her, securing a trip posed no problem. The next thing she knew, she was on her way to the capital of Skyrim and after a smooth, but exhausting trip, she arrived. She rented a room and bought a simple meal at the local inn, acquiring information from the local innkeeper about the man she was looking for. 

It turned out this Solaire was not hard to find either. Almost everyone in the city knew him and it took her less than half an hour to stand on his doorstep the next day. He received her kindly and, much to her surprise, instantly caught on why she was there. 

Astraea couldn’t describe the relief of someone actually believing her tale, much less hearing that there were actually multiple cases like hers. Solaire was immensely interested in the details over her story, recording everything and comparing them to the experiences of others he’d met. There was a pattern, he told her, and the both of them were some of the lucky and rare ones to come to Skyrim knowing why.

However, he had to admit, he had not yet come across any people from Boletaria. The ones he knew came from places like Lordran or Drangleic, names that sounded utterly unfamiliar to her. She was the first of her kind he had spoken to, so if there were any others, he didn’t know about them.

That knowledge left Astraea immensely somber. When Solaire had told her there were others like her, she had hoped to perhaps see some people from her home country again. It didn't even matter who, even people whom she didn't know would be fine, if only because it would help her feel a little less homesick. Even though she had known from the start she was cast onto an unfamiliar plane and she would likely never see anyone she loved again, it hit her much harder than she wanted to admit.

Much to her surprise, however, Solaire didn’t seem as willing to come to the same conclusion she did. He had a proposal. He would send out letters to others he knew like them and to all of Skyrim’s settlements, detailing her name, appearance and history. That way, if there were any others from her home country here, they would know. Until then, she could remain here as his guest.

Not having anything left to lose, Astraea had accepted and for the next few months, she tried to make a life for herself in Solitude. The city was quite lovely and reminded her a lot of West-Boletaria save for the cold weather. She threw herself into learning about this new world’s magic and running errands on her host’s behalf. When she started to learn about alchemy, she would often go out and collect ingredients, for her own use or to sell. She even visited the nearby Orc stronghold, aiding a young female Orc unwilling to marry by helping her pay off her dowry and, with Solaire’s help, get her recruited into the Legion.

She also learned as much as she could about Skyrim, not just about Orsimer culture, but also those of the humans, elves and all the other peculiar sentient races inhabiting this place. She also immersed herself in their religions, a fascinating thing in and of itself due to the widespread belief in polytheism. Everywhere she turned, she learned something new and this period of discovery helped to take the edge off the sadness and loss she might have otherwise felt. What more, it gave her the patience to wait for any new that might come back from the rest of Skyrim.

It was not a bad life, far from it, but as the months wore on and letters with negative confirmation came back, she slowly realized she might need to accept the fact that everything from her life in Boletaria was gone for good. She had to admit that wasn't easy. At night, she would often dream about Garl, only to wake up and realize wasn't there. She would remember their time together, the good and the bad, and realize just how much she missed him still.

She would have to let him go eventually. It was no use to keep mourning for someone who was long gone. Someone whom was lost to her through death, space and time. She would still spend many years here before old age would take her and even if she would never find love again, she would have to keep on living. Still, that didn't mean she ever wanted to forget him and for now, she could not yet remove his memory from her everyday thoughts. She would eventually, when the time was right. Until then, she would be here in Solitude, piecing together her life bit by bit.

It was with that mentality of perseverance that she went about this day as well, browsing at the local market for produce. Solaire had been nothing but kind and understanding to her during her stay, helping her where he could to integrate into this new society, and she wanted to do something in return by buying him a lovely dinner. She was perhaps not the world's greatest cook, but she could put together a simple meal if she had to and she felt it was the least she could do. She was looking over some fresh fish, when suddenly, she felt hard hands yanking her backwards. Immediately, she started struggling, quickly realizing there were two of them and they weren't playing around. She started to scream to draw attention, only for a hand to cover her mouth. In the back of her mind, she wondered if she was perhaps getting robbed, until the two people in question spoke.

“Remember us, outsider?”

The moment the rough Orcish voices reached her ears, Astraea could feel her heart ceasing the beat. She looked over her shoulder, fear taking hold of her entire being. The moment she looked into the hateful eyes of Yatul and Bolar, she knew what she was in for.

“You took him from us, you filthy outsider! You took everything we held dear! We are pariahs now thanks to you! We couldn’t touch you in the stronghold, but we definitely can here!”

There was the flash of a sword and then and there, Astraea responded. A few months ago, she would have been helpless. Now, however she had learned quite a few things and swiftly decided to put those into action. 

Reaching out with her free hand, she fired a blast of frostbite magic into Yatul’s face. The Orc woman shrieked and let go, allowing Astraea to reach for the ebony dagger on her side. She slammed it into Bolar’s arm multiple times and now no longer restrained, she started running. If only she could get either to a city guard or Solaire’s home, she would be safe.

She didn’t get far. Both Orcs were much stronger and faster and within seconds, they had gained on her. Astraea, however, didn’t plan to go quietly. Retaliating with more frost magic and her dagger, she fought like a lioness, determined to draw blood and buy time. By now, other citizens had started to notice the scuffle and were screaming, panicked cries for help reverberating across the square. 

“Someone! A woman’s getting attacked! Guards! Guards!”

The former holy woman could only pray some nearby guards responded to the plea as she fought tooth and nail to fight off her assailants. In the end, however, her smaller weapon and lack of true fighting skills cost her and she found herself slammed against the ground, her arms pinned by Bolar while Yatul stood over her gleefully.

“Nowhere to run, little rabbit.”

Despite her increasing fear, Astraea tried her best to glare. “The guards are coming. Their faces are the last thing you will see on this earth.” 

All she got was a laugh. “You little fool. After all you did to us, you think we care if we die? We gladly will as long as we get to take you with us!”

That remark, uttered so casually, shattered her brave façade in a heartbeat. The Orc was right, of course. Her actions had caused them became pariahs, shunned and shamed in the eyes of the strongholds and even city Orcs. They had nothing left to lose, only the few seconds they needed to kill her as well and at least die with their lust for vengeance fulfilled. 

Faster than she could comprehend, there was a sword above her chest and with equal speed, it came down towards it. In her mind, however, the process was painfully slow and she could see the steel glisten in the pale sunlight as it came closer to her. Her body went cold. She was going to die here, impaled by a sword in a strange land, for all to see and unable to help. 

The sword, however, never even touched her.

Just as she braced herself for the end, Yatul was suddenly yanked back violently. She hit the ground hard, swearing and clawing all the way. She rapidly tried to get up again, only for a heavy boot to be planted on her chest. Astraea spotted a tall man, clad from head to toe in dark ebony armor. In his hand was a warhammer of the same material and with terrifying ease, he brought it down.

From her position, Astraea watched in horror as Yatul’s head cracked apart like an unboiled egg, leaving nothing but a large red splatter on the street stones. The body twitched for a few seconds, not yet registering it was headless, before finally lying still. She could smell blood, pungent and fresh, and she swallowed hard as the man simply shook it off his weapon, before snapping his head in the direction of her and Bolar.

She could feel the wise woman tremble through her grip on her. “Get away from me! This is Orc business! Stay away, outsider!”

The man clearly wasn’t impressed as he stomped towards her threateningly. The Orc woman rapidly let go off her and scrambled back. Fire started to form at her finger tips and soon she was frantically hurling firebolts as the man encroached on her. He simply responded by holding up his shield to deflect the blasts, more annoyed than anything else, continuing his advance. 

Realizing the man was out for her blood, Bolar swiftly grabbed a sword from her own belt. Deciding to take her chances rather than flee, she charged at the man, slashing at him viciously while uttering a war cry. Her opponent was not even fazed, slamming his shield into her face. Her head bounced back violently, but as she was about to recover, the man threw his warhammer over her head with both hands and jerked it towards his metal armor. The impact caused her neck to snap with a violent, sickening crack, after which her lifeless body sank to the ground. 

Just then, the guards managed to reach them. They turned to the corpses and then to the stranger, ready to question the carnage. Several witnesses pitched in immediately, describing the attack happening and that the stranger had acted to protect the woman being attacked. The overwhelming evidence in his favor was enough to make the guards back off, focusing their attention on removing the corpses and letting the man in ebony armor go free. 

The warrior then turned to her and Astraea almost felt the urge to run herself. Even if he just saved her life, there was no way he had good intentions. After all, who would kill so violently just to protect a complete stranger? Still, she found her legs limp as the man approached her and knelt beside her, only to stiffen entirely when he spoke.

“Astraea… Are you alright?”

That voice, deep and warm, stirred something in her. Something that had been dying these last few months and which she was considering to forget. Yet now, she could not. She recognized that voice. No force on earth could ever make her forget.

“G-Garl?”

Almost immediately, the warrior took off his helmet and she felt her heart leap. He was there, the same face she longed for in her dreams. The one person whom she was certain she had damned and would never see again… There was no mistaking it. He was here…

It was there that the tears started flowing and yet, she also wanted to laugh. How could it be? How could he be here as well? It seemed preposterous and she could barely even formulate any of the questions in her mind.

“What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “My sister received a letter from Solitude that you had been found. I came here as soon as she told me. Not a moment too soon from what it would seem.”

She nearly wanted to break out into hysterical laughter at that response, wiping her eyes. That wasn’t at all what she meant. Still, she couldn’t care less to rephrase it as she simply threw her arms around him. All she wanted to do was feel him close to her, to convince herself that this was real and not some strange kind of waking dream. 

He was happy to indulge her, before putting both his arms under her and easily lifting her up. “Come. Let us get your belongings and go home.”

Astraea couldn’t think to protest at that statement. She simply snuggled against him and gave him the directions to Solaire’s house. As they walked however, she couldn’t help but at least wonder about one important thing, one she wanted to know before all else.

“Garl, where are we going after this?”

He smiled. “Falkreath Hold. My sister lives in Helgen. I, however, live just outside Falkreath itself. I built a homestead there by the lakeside, on a patch of land the Jarl gave me for services rendered this last year or so. I think you will like it there.” 

She nodded wistfully. “That sounds wonderful…”

She tried her best to imagine the place he described. An idyllic, large home by a lake. A place with sunlight, surrounded by nature and life. A house which they could make a home, live out their lives, perhaps even raise children together. A life they never could have had in Boletaria, surrounded by pain and suffering in the Valley of Defilement…

Just like that, she could feel tears running down her cheeks once more. The sound of her cries had Garl halt and he looked down at her in confusion. She tried her best to get a hold of herself, not wanting him to get the wrong idea as she tried to make her feelings known.”

“I missed you so much, Garl. I thought I would never see you again…”

He only smiled at that again, resting his head on top of hers as they continued walking. “I have been searching for you, Astraea. From the moment I had something of a foothold here, I was looking for you. Hoping to find you. Praying to the gods of this new world you were not left behind and damned. I could not protect you back then, but I swear by the Nine Divines and the Daedric Princes, I will never leave your side now.”

Astraea didn’t respond to that oath on his part. She couldn’t really get anything sensible out of her mouth at this time. The events of the day had left her too overwhelmed, too shaken up to take in this new reality that the world wasn’t so bleak as before. That unlike back home, here the Gods had not abandoned her. 

She wanted to laugh once more at the mere idea of it. That for once, instead of being the one required to present endless compassion, some had been given to her instead. Both a divine entity and the people of this world had helped her on her way and now, she was here, back in the arms of the man she loved.

She was not alone, after all, not even here. _Especially_ not here. That little bit of mercy, she realized, was all she needed. She was ready to go home, wherever that might be.


	5. Sense From Folly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Slayer of Demons escapes the Nexus and comes to Winterhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of this story is loosely based on the Rebuild Winterhold mod.
> 
> Also, for those who might be interested: An "alatrist" is someone who believes in the existence of deities, but does not feel they require worship or that they care for humanity or intervene on our behalf. They are not necessarily the same as misotheists, who actively believe in and despise deities and definitely not the same as atheists, who simply believe deities do not exist at all.

Growing up in Boletaria meant growing up with very specific ideas about damnation. The Church was rather adamant about where one would go if they turned away from God and tended to assure their flock that there were about a million different ways to get damned. As he grew up, Lucian Marchand, the man who would one day become the Slayer of Demons, found those ideas increasingly odd.

After all, wouldn’t a pit of fire actually be a realm of possibilities for a pyromancer? Being close to the Old One, the primordial Demon, thrilling to those who studied the Soul Arts? As an educated merchant’s son and alatrist by nature, who loved reading between the lines and thinking outside the box, he came to the conclusion that damnation meant different things to different people. 

With that kind of irreverent attitude among a society of unspoken rules, how fitting was it then that he had found his own damnation in martyrdom. Here he was, in the Nexus while the rest of Boletaria sang praises of his heroism and sacrifice, trapped and suffering. Suffering, despite the fact that a Monumental, as he was now, should be devoid of emotion and personal thought. 

Oh, of course he would eventually lose those. Bit by bit, as his body adapted to his new task, he could feel himself slipping away day by day. The previous Monumental, before it passed away, had told him this was a good thing. To simply accept it as it made the transition easier. He had been tempted to laugh in the creature’s face. The one reason there was still a world left for a Monumental to watch over was because he wasn’t the kind to accept things lying down. 

No, he wasn’t willing to let go yet, if only because it meant he would forget everyone he held dear. His beloved parents, merchants who also ran a cider brewery, who had died when the Demon Fog first appeared. Sir Karsten, the late impoverished knight who had taken him as a squire when his parents offered him money, but whom he’d grown to love and taught him everything he knew. He would even lose the memory of the Maiden in Black, the beautiful, gentle ancient Demon without whom he would have died before he even undertook his quest. 

He refused to forget them, trapped in his stationary body. As prophetic dreams washed across his mind, eating away at his sense of self every day, he fought. Even if his being the new Monumental was what held the world together, he couldn’t bear to relinquish the man he once was. He had never appreciated the notion of sacrifice and even now, he was unwilling to submit.

If only there was some way for his mind to escape his body. To simply leave behind his body to do what it had to do, while his true conscious slipped away. He smiled at the idea of his spirit being able to roam free, floating on the cool summer wind to return to his home, to wander for eternity in the place he grew up in with his memories intact. He had studied magic in his day, but if only he’d known the spells to accomplish just that…

That thought only served to sadden him further, emphasized his predicament. This in turn made his need for fantasy grow, as his mind came up with a million futile ways to escape his predicament. He might even consider prayer were it not the God and Demon that had put him here in the first place. He was indeed damned, by the very being this world venerated as their Savior.

Then, one day after so long of fighting the deterioration of his mind, he heard something. A voice, from so far away he doubted this person was even in the Nexus. He couldn’t recognize it, not even as male or female, but he could still make out the words this person repeated, like an endless, soothing mantra. 

“Come to me, Julianos, for without you, my wit is weak to sort the wheat from the chaff, and my eyes should neither know the truth from the false, nor sense from folly, nor justice from prejudice and interest.”

All the Slayer of Demons could do was listen, straining to hear that plea for logic and wisdom rather than submission. It wasn’t long before he started repeating it himself, clinging to it like his life depended on it. As he did, he swore it became louder until finally, it overwhelmed him and started to cloud his vision. The prophetic visions receded and suddenly, there was a bright light, with a triangle suspended above the ground.

In his mind, the Slayer of Demons reached out to it and touched it. The moment his fingers touched the surface, there was a pull. Before he could do anything, he swore he could feel his soul leave his body, leaving behind a living but unconscious husk. His spirit, however, was seized by the light and soon, he lost all sense.

The next thing he knew, there was white. All around him, as far as his newly opened eyes could see. It even poured down from the sky, cold to the touch. Just white…and freezing cold. 

It took him several moments to realize that he was, in fact, surrounded by snow. Snow… That very notion alone had him jolt up, looking around in surprise. Yet as much as he was convinced he was dreaming, there was indeed snow around him, as well as gray rocks and pine trees in the distance. The sight alone was so beautiful he could cry, had it not been for the fact he had no protection from the weather at all. 

Awareness of his own nudity hit him hard and he shivered madly as a rough, icy wind assaulted him. On instinct, he started to look around, desperate for shelter. It was then he noticed an object beside him. A dark, pyramid-like shape, not unlike the triangle he recalled seeing, that seemed to emanate an unfamiliar kind of magic and that he had apparently been clutching until a few moments ago…

He would have happily given that thought, were it not for the more pressing matter of not dying from the cold. He looked around, frantically trying to find something to helper him in his current predicament. Yet all he was looking at was the side of a mountain, with a steep climb up and, when he looked over the ledge he was on, a steep drop down. 

Still, knowing he’d die for certain if he stayed here, he decided to take the gamble. Walking across the ledge to find a more accessible part to descend, he soon discovered a slope. He knew time was ticking by rapidly and without even thinking, he jumped off the ledge and made his way down. It was a horrible slide down, filled with slippery snow and sharp rocks. Every inch down the mountain caused new cuts and scrapes on his naked body, the cold alone turning his flesh raw. Still, he made it down without any broken bones, for which he was immensely thankful. 

Lucian was just about to contemplate his next step when he noticed a large bonfire not too far away. The imminent promise of heat had him stumble forwards, trudging through the snow and across the rocks to get near it. He quickly sat down beside it, a deep, shivering sigh of contentment leaving his body. 

Only after that did it occur to him that the camp was indeed inhabited. Mere feet away from him was what looked like a giant humanoid, in the company of strange, woolly creatures with large tusks and a long appendage on their faces. They watched him closely, growling when he might come too close, but strangely enough didn’t seem to mind him wandering around the camp. He decided not to question this, as he, once sufficiently warm, looked around for anything to help him keep it that way. 

His eyes fell onto a chest in the camp. He quickly eyed the Giant again, noting its continued indifference, before tiptoeing over and opening it. He could practically scream with happiness at what he found. Steel fur-lined armor and some simple boots, as well as a good, study sword, some jewels and a decent amount of coin. How the Giant, a seemingly primitive creature with no apparent need for any of these things, came to possess those, he didn’t know, but at this point, he wasn’t going to ask. He quickly strapped on the garments, relieved at the protection they offered from the cold.

After warming himself at the bonfire one last time, he decided not to overstay his welcome. Spying a crudely beaten path some distance away from the camp, he decided to follow it north, hoping it would somehow lead him back to civilization. If there was anything of the sort here, wherever he was. 

That fear quickly faded when, after a relatively short walk, he happened upon a building. He curiously approached, only to smile when the sign at the side read “Nightgate Inn”. Feeling a measure of relief overtake him, he quickly climbed the stairs and pushed at the door, pleased to find it unlocked before going inside.

The place was mostly abandoned, save for one or two patrons, but the fires were warm and the smell of food and alcohol was in the air. He quickly headed over to the counter, hesitantly presenting some of the coin and asking the innkeeper if he accepted this kind of currency. The man looked at him as if he was mad, laughed and told him that of course he did, before offering him a drink and a meal. He gladly accepted, adding the reservation for a room as well when he heard the going rate.

As he sat there, already feeling a lot better than he did about an hour ago, he decided it was a good time to try and find out where he was. The strange currency and creatures already told him he was nowhere near Boletaria. As such, he concocted a vague story about what happened to him and focused his efforts on finding out where he had ended up.

The innkeeper, Hadring, told him he was on the road between Dawnstar and Windhelm, with the old city of Winterhold north of here. All of these were situated in the province of Skyrim, in the land of Tamriel. The Slayer of Demons was an educated man, but he had never before heard of this country. However he had come here, it was so far away that his well-paid tutors had not heard of it. So why was it that he currently didn’t feel afraid as much as he simply felt confused?

As he sat here, any panic he had felt when he awoke in the snow was quickly fading. Instead, he felt strangely excited, any sense of homesickness notably absent. Everyone he loved was already gone and his conscious life as a Monumental had been agony. Frankly, there had been nothing left in Boletaria that was remotely worth staying for.

In this strange place, perhaps he could be free and still have the life that was taken from him. Even if he knew absolutely nothing about it, even if he had to start from scratch. This place felt alive and vibrant; whatever it held, surely it was better than what he had left behind. He could walk and take action. He could feel emotion and connect to others. He had thoughts that were his and his alone. After lacking those, that was all he needed to be happy.

That inappropriate thought heartened him, reaffirmed him of the stubborn, determined personality he had regained. He decided to celebrate his newfound decision with a drink and as drank his ale, he asked Hadring about the nearby towns and their facilities. 

According to the older man, Dawnstar was a little fishing community in the west and Windhelm a large, snowy city in the east that was recovering from the recent civil war. Winterhold was barely a shell of a town but it still had a functioning college for mages. That last mention was all that was needed to determine Lucian’s next destination. 

He had always been fascinated by magic, pyromancy in particular. He had learned the odd spell back home, growing up, but never had much opportunity to truly study it during his life as a knight. What better opportunity for him to do so than now, in this new place that had apparently a school dedicated to the craft? His mind was made up. Starting tomorrow, he’d spend the first day of his new life here going to Winterhold.

The next day, after the first sleep he’d experienced in a long time, he set out to Winterhold, with a map the innkeeper had provided. The initial part was easy enough. All he needed to do was follow the path and the road signs. Yet once he made it past Wayward Pass, things became trickier. The snowy forests gave way to a frozen landscape, made of nothing but rock and ice.

The trek wasn’t an easy one. He had to watch his footing with every step, for fear of slipping. The sun did very little to counteract the immense cold and its reflection on the ice sometimes nearly blinded him. Every once in a while, he would come across an abandoned camp, some very recently as he found fresh food there. He took whatever he could find, knowing it might be a matter of life and death.

It wasn’t long before he found out why these campsites ended up being abandoned. The endless plains were littered with predatory animals, many of whom he had never seen before. Wolves, hairy humanoids and strange, huge cats with sickle-like teeth. He thanked his lucky stars that he had taken that sword back at the giant’s camp, else his first journey in this new land would likely have been his last. 

And yet…

The Slayer of Demons found that he didn’t feel scared or unhappy at all. As he walked across ice and rock, he found himself taking in the sights and enjoying every second of it. He marveled at every camp, ever creature, every ruin that hinted at a long lost civilization. Even the endless sheets of ice with the shimmering ocean in the distance. 

Just to walk here, to take in this place with all his senses. To feel in awe at it…to feel anything at all. No, walking here in no man’s land, after so long in the Nexus, made him feel happier than he had ever before. 

Nevertheless, he was glad when he finally arrived in Winterhold after one and a half days of travel. Hadring had not lied to him; even hamlets in Boletaria looked more lively than this place. It was practically a ghost town, with half of the houses barely standing shells. Still, he had not come here for sightseeing. He’d come to study magic and seeing how this place still had a store and inn, he figured it was all he needed. Filled with optimism, he headed towards “The Frozen Hearth”, hoping to gain some information on how to qualify.

The very first thing he noticed when coming in was that the reception he got was anything but warm. Many of the people stared at him as he was a dead rat dragged in by the cat, to the point he wondered if these were the displaced souls of Dreglings he had previously slaughtered. Thankfully, the innkeeper himself was a little more welcoming. He was happy to serve him a drink and when he asked about the College, he told him to talk to Faralda, the woman guarding the walkway.

He kindly thanked the man for the information and after gulping down another cheap ale, he set off. The College was hard to miss and he quickly went over and started climbing the large stairs. At the first tower, he spotted the woman the innkeeper had talked about. She was the oddest creature he had ever seen, with her elongated face, green skin, pointy ears and golden eyes, but he was smart enough not to let it show. She stepped up to him, her voice curt and resolute.

“Cross the bridge at your own peril! The way is dangerous and the gate will not open. You shall not gain entry.”

Her snappiness took Lucian aback. “Oh. I was told I could learn about magic here. So that is no longer possible?”

Much to his relief, mentioning he was an aspiring mage seemed to soften her somewhat. “Perhaps. But what do you expect to find within?”

The question threw him for a loop and he stared at her dumbly. “Magic?”

Faralda chuckled. “Ha! Humor is often in short supply here. But I sense that perhaps you’re after more than just that. It would seem that the College has what you seek. The question now is what you can offer the College.”

He stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Not just anyone is allowed inside. Those wishing to enter must show some degree of skill with magic. A small test, if you will.”

By now, any hope he might have had of going inside was swiftly dwindling. No one had told him about any kind of test and he came to this place to learn from scratch. For a brief moment, he considered if he could bluff his way in, but he knew that meant he’d likely be found out later on. He should either try or walk away now. Being the stubborn fool that he was, he chose the former.

“I’ll take your test then.”

Faralda smiled. “Excellent. The Mage Light spell is useful to any mage, not just those specializing in Alteration. Can you cast one on the seal on the ground?”

Lucian could practically feel his stomach sink to his feet. He had never heard of that kind of spell. What an earth was a Mage Light anyway? Knowing he couldn’t possibly feign anything he didn’t know, he decided to admit defeat.

“I don’t know that spell…”

The woman frowned, but didn’t seem too shocked. “No? Well, if you think you’re capable of it, then I’d be happy to provide it to you for a mere 30 gold. Or you can try your luck with one of the court wizards around Skyrim. They also sell spells.”

Right there, the Slayer of Demons felt more conflicted than ever before. He already didn’t have a lot of money to begin with. Would it really be wise to waste it on a spell he potentially couldn’t execute? The smart person in him told him he shouldn’t, but another part of him pointed out that this was his last, albeit tiny, chance of learning magic from the best. That part eventually won out and he reached for his coins.

“Very well, here.”

She smiled again, handing him a book. “Here you are. Now, I’m anxious to see you cast it.”

He quickly opened it and started to read through it. The instructions were remarkably simple and seemed to sear itself into his mind at a rapid rate. Then, just like that, the book was gone, disappearing into thin air, and his baffled mind scrambled for answers on what had just happened. He still remembered the spell, however, and with Faralda waiting, he knew the moment of truth was here.

Having no idea what to do, he simply readied himself and focused. He thought of the way he performed Miracles and Soul Arts back home and how he didn’t have a catalyst in the shape of a talisman or wand here. The woman certainly didn’t point out he might need one, so perhaps that wasn’t the case here. The only other thing he knew was that back home, he used to draw magic from the world, which was caused by the presence of some divine being. He could only hope something similar applied here.

He took a deep breath and then, half-jokingly praying to nothing in particular, willed magic to happen. Suddenly, there was a blueish glow around his hands and a small, bright light shot out from it. It hit the seal as intended and it instantly lit up. Lucian stared back at Faralda, wondering if that was supposed to happen, only for her to grin.

“Well done, indeed. I think you’ll be a superb addition to the College. Welcome, Apprentice.”

For a moment, he was certain she was jesting. There was no way he had just managed to execute a spell he’d never heard off through dumb luck. Still, her expression was serious and the longer the brief silence between them lasted, the more he felt like laughing. He had, in fact, just stumbled his way into a Mage College with sheer ignorance. Still, he quickly hid his own astonishment as she continued.

“I’ll lead you across the bridge. Once you’re inside you’ll want to speak with Tolfdir, our Master Wizard. Please, follow me.”

The Slayer of Demons could only nod eagerly as he did what she asked. As she guided him over the walkway, he still couldn’t believe what had just happened. It seemed he hadn’t lost his touch for bluffing after all. Still, it wasn’t long before his astonishment started to turn to giddiness. He was going to fulfill a lifelong fantasy. He was going to study magic.

The next six months were some of the best of Lucian’s life. Realizing he’d made it in by the skin of his teeth, he threw himself into studying spells. He attended excursions and lectures on all schools of magic, was sure to ask his teachers all manners of questions, spent hours at the College library called the Arcanaeum and conducted all manners of experiments or practiced in the Room of Elements. Every now and then, he even got send down to Winterhold to fight dragons that landed there, allowing his expertise as a knight to be put to good use. 

Initially, the dragons were his favorite part of any day. He knew how to put down a dragon and these were nowhere near as bad as the ones in Boletaria. It also helped that their bellies were often full of treasure. The gluttonous beasts often had gold, gems and even pieces of armor inside them and their bones and scales were worth quite a lot besides being useful for alchemy. Unlike everyone else, he quite started to look forward to these creatures attempting to invade the town, especially since he was a lot better at dragon slaying than playing at being a wizard. 

At first, he was a rather hopeless case, unfamiliar with even the basics of magic in this realm. He would often need endless tries to master the simplest of spells and would often find it easier to use enchanted staves than to channel magicka through his body. The scrolls he’d make would often have unintended side effects and many of his experiments blew up in his face, sometimes quite literally.

Still, like with practically everything he’d done in life, giving up never crossed his mind. He kept at it, encouraged by patient teachers like Tolfdir and Faralda and helpful fellow students like Brelyna the Dark Elf and Onmund. Even arrogant J’zargo, an odd cat-like creature called a Khajiit with great talent and a greater ego, motivated him to do better. He kept trying over and over, learning where he could and adjusting after every mistake until, at last, the spells worked the way they should. 

From there, things got easier every day. The rate at which he learned increased, channeling magic started to feel natural. His experiments started to have positive results and soon, he was able to keep up with the others perfectly. Tolfdir and Faralda told him he expected nothing else, but that didn’t stop the Slayer of Demons from being excited about his accomplishments. It helped him connect with his peers and he felt a lot less bad asking them for help when he could provide knowledge in return. Even J’zargo started to respect him after he held his own against him in a duel using destruction magic and the two ended up developing an odd friendship of sorts.

His newfound affinity with magic also opened up a lot more spare time. He would use this to learn about Skyrim and Tamriel, even travel to other cities to sell off his large pile of dragon loot. It was during a trip to Solitude that he finally find out who Julianos was, the recipient of the strange prayer he heard when he first ended up here. 

When visiting the local temple, he’d been surprised to find the same black pyramid shape he’d been clutching when he first awoke in the mountains. He’d walked up, curiously touching it, feeling the same strange magic aura around it as he did then. The priestess had come to inspect his strange actions and he’d asked her just what it was and what it stood for.

She had explained to him that it was a shrine to the God Julianos, one of the Nine Divines primarily worshipped here in Skyrim. He was the God of Wisdom and Logic, governing the realms of literature, law, history and contradiction. He was also associated with magic and therefore often worshipped by mages. He was prayed to by those who sought wisdom and to make the world a better place.

The idea that a god might have actually come to his aid seemed absurd to Lucian, but he reminded himself that he had little other explanation for how he got to Skyrim in the first place. Besides, if Julianos had delivered him from his imprisonment, he was happy to give praise if it concerned a god like this. A deity that took its due from wisdom and logic seemed far more worthy of devotion than one that requested blind obedience. 

It was a little wiser that he returned home that day, glad to have something of an explanation for what happened to him. It put a new spring in his step when he worked on his magic and experiments and made him far more eager to explore Winterhold and its environment. Of course, there wasn’t much to explore and it wasn’t long before he became curious just how a town adjacent to a powerful Mage College could end up in such a state of disrepair. 

Initially, this wasn’t easy. People got remarkably tight-lipped when he brought it up and the people in the village seemed particularly angry that a _mage_ asked such questions. Thankfully, after much insistence, Brelyna and Jarl Kraldar were happy to inform him of the town’s history. Especially the Jarl in his old age had plenty to tell about the Oblivion Crisis and the Great Collapse and gave a good, unbiased account on how both disasters had affected public opinion on magic in Skyrim.

To say it was an eye opener would be putting it mildly. Even though he found it ridiculous to blame magic as a concept and was neutral on whether the College was responsible for the Great Collapse, he could definitely understand why the local Nords did not appreciate their presence. Especially since they mostly stayed within their own walls, not lifting a finger to help the town survive aside from buying the occasional food. 

Initially, he tried to push it away. Especially when Tolfdir, with his usual kindness, told him not to get worked up over small-minded people and that they could not help those who turned them away. Yet every time he stepped outside the College, either for an excursion or to buy supplies unrelated to magic in the local shop, the poor state of the town was hard to ignore. 

It was no surprise, really. Besides the inn and a poorly stocked store, there was little to come to Winterhold for if one wasn’t a mage. The mages themselves kept a closed economy for the most part, having all supplies delivered to them and only buying their food from the inn. There were also no farms due to the constant snow and no business or services that would inspire any outside trade. The merchant’s son in him started to understand just why this town had not picked itself up yet after eighty years. 

He was once again mulling on this one morning. He wasn’t in the mood for any studies or experiments as of late due to his worries and instead focused on recreating one of the few little things he missed from home. Taking a batch of apples that were about to spoil from the College’s pantry, he had turned them to juice and allowed them to ferment for several days. Today, he was about to see if his efforts had paid off. In fact, he was so engrossed in his work that he barely noticed J’zargo poke his head into the room.

“J’zargo didn’t see you play with fire these last few days. That’s very unusual.”

The Slayer of Demons looked up when he heard the Khajiit’s voice. “Oh, hello. No, I haven’t. Didn’t really feel like doing so.”

With those words, he turned back to his endeavor. His fellow student quickly caught on to his dismissive attitude. He moved over to the chair in his room and Lucian could hear how he dropped his usually flippant attitude. 

“J’zargo senses you’re troubled, friend.”

The human male looked over his shoulder and smiled. “I guess you could say that. I’m merely wondering whether joining the College was actually useful.”

His friend cocked his head. “Magic is always useful. Especially when faced with dragons. Far too many dragons here…”

He chuckled a little at that response. “I don’t know. I wanted to learn about magic because it interested me. But it feels like we do nothing with it but develop even crazier magic and then pat ourselves on the back for it. We hold countless secrets, yet we can’t even think of how to revive a practical ghost town. That or we simply don’t bother to.” 

J’zargo shook his head. “Such is not mage work. It’s Jarl’s work. Besides, we can’t help those who don’t want to be helped.”

As harsh as it sounded, the Slayer of Demons realized he had a point. Mages had very little experience on how to run a town or stimulate the economy. Besides, many of the Nords in this region had an unfavorable opinion on them. They would likely turn them away the moment they offered help, fearing another disaster. He sighed.

“Perhaps you’re right. Still, I can’t help but think we might change some opinions if only we could reach out somehow.”

By now, he was done preparing the fermented juice and poured it into a cup. He took a small sip from it. An old, familiar taste entered his mouth and he smiled, having that little bit of home with him again. His actions didn’t go unnoticed by J’zargo, who watched him curious.

“What kind of potion are you brewing that makes you smile so much?”

Lucian laughed. “It’s not potion. It’s cider. An alcoholic beverage made of fermented apples. We drank it a lot where I came from and my parents used to sell it, but it seems it’s gone out of fashion here since the Second Era. Do you want to try some?”

Instantly, his friend’s eyes perked up with interest. He excitedly took the cup from him and put it to his lips. The first sip was a careful one, only for him to drink deeply and let out an odd, purring sound. 

“Khajiit likes this drink. Sweet and tart at the same time. J’zargo thanks you for letting him taste.”

The human male grinned. “Well, glad to know I remember the recipe somewhat. Do you want any more? I have about a few bottle’s worth. And it’d be nice to drink with a friend.”

Naturally, like with most things that were free in life, J’zargo didn’t protest. Soon, the two of them were happily talking and drinking away their sorrows. They discussed their homes and lives and while the Khajiit still claimed he’d had too much skooma when he tried to tell him about Boletaria, he was glad just to share this little remnant of home. 

Soon, their enthusiastic celebration caught the attention of others in the student quarters and others like Brelyna and Onmund came to check on them. Lucian talked them into joining their little celebration of sorts and soon, they too were enjoying the drink he had produced. Even Tolfdir was quite appreciative, despite the fact he’d been alerted to the disturbances by the rest of the faculty and had come to put an end to it.

“You have a talent for making beverages, apprentice, and I certainly enjoy a good drink like this. But we are a College of Mages, not a brewery.”

The Khajiit laughed at the old wizard’s half-hearted attempt at admonishing them. “J’zargo thinks you are too uptight. This cider is delicious. All Nords should drink it. Might make them less cold.”

Lucian laughed in response, only to suddenly go very quiet. That one comment, said in a state of impending inebriation, had him think. Perhaps it was a longing for his home and the simpler memories of it. Perhaps it was the alcohol in his own blood. Still, what J’zargo said made him think. It planted a seed inside his head, an idea about how to perhaps help Winterhold.

When the celebration was finally broken up, he remained alone with these thoughts. Yet as the pleasant buzz from the cider wore off, they would not leave him alone. Deciding not to ignore what was either plain foolishness or sheer brilliance, he got to work. He knew three things that moment. He’d need to look up how to build a home. He’d need to get to the Arcanaeum to find information on the more unusual alteration magic used in Morrowind and conduct some experiments. And last, he’d need a lot more apples. 

About a week later, he found himself at the Jarl’s longhouse. He offered Kraldar and his entourage his self-made beverage, glad to see they were as enthusiastic as his peers at the College. Once they had finished their goblets and decided his offering was a pleasant surprise, he took his chance and made his proposal. 

Kraldar gave him a surprised look. “A brewery? Here in Winterhold?”

The Slayer of Demons nodded. “I found out cider is no longer made here in Skyrim. And it might draw people here. Bring in some outside coin.”

The Jarl smiled. “That’s a very noble idea, Lucian. But you say this drink is made from apples, right? I don’t think those will grow here in Winterhold. You’d spent a fortune simply shipping in your materials.”

Lucian shook his head. “Oh, don’t worry about that, my Jarl. I have thought about where to obtain my ingredients. It won’t be an issue.”

A shrug was his answer. “If you say so… It won’t be easy either way, I’m warning you of that.”

The younger man chuckled. “I’m aware it won’t. But we have to start somewhere if we want to rebuild this town. So all I ask is your permission to buy one of the destroyed houses and build my brewery there.”

Kraldar sat back, giving him an amused look. “I often annoy my housecarl with tales of how to recapture the splendor of Winterhold. Foolishness, Thonjolf calls it. Whatever it is, I’m glad to have another in the town who shares it. You have my permission. I’m curious to see what will happen.”

At hearing the man’s approval, the Slayer of Demons practically wanted to jump in the air, but quickly told himself to remain professional and nodded. “Thank you, my Jarl.”

Thus, an hour or so later, Lucian Marchand found himself 300 septims lighter and the proud owner of a barely standing home, across the Jarl’s longhouse and next to the inn. Still, that did little to contain his excitement. What he saw were the beginnings of a project, something that might revive a swiftly dying town. As far as he was concerned, he couldn’t wait to get started. 

The very next day, he set out from the city ready to purchase all the things needed to get started. Money was not an issue thanks to all the dragon slaying and soon, he had all the equipment, sawn logs, iron ingots, straw, quarry stone and clay that would turn his decrepit shack into a proper brewery. He even managed to convince one of the workers at the lumber mill where he bought the logs, a skilled carpenter named Avis, to come help him for a decent pay. 

With a large cart full of materials, he returned to Winterhold. He arranged bed and board for his carpenter and the very next day, the work on the brewery started. The decision to hire Avis definitely paid off. His own knowledge of building houses only came from books and the carpenter proved to be more than his money’s worth. Under his guidance, the building went smoothly and on schedule and after a few days, the foundation of the building was already laid. 

Over the next few weeks, they followed this up with the wall framing and the walls and started to work on the floor. It was around this time that the people in Winterhold started to take notice of the project. Since there was so little else to do, watching the building get erected quickly became a spectator sport, even for people as far of as Whistling Mine.

Many of them, particularly the mine workers and city guards, spent a lot of time mocking him. Some wondered if he intended to sell his drinks to horkers, dragons and frost trolls. A few joked about whether he would try to use magic to make his business successful. Others suggested the end of the world had been averted with Alduin, but brought to fruition with a mage starting a commoner’s business. 

The Slayer of Demons simply ignored all of those remarks. He didn’t need the approval of these people anyway. He knew all too well his project could fail and he could stand to lose a lot of money, but the threat of failure had never scared him before. Small-mindedness had kept this place decrepit and only risk might pull it back to his feet. As such, the opinions of the townspeople were the easiest thing in the world to ignore. Those of his fellow mages, however, not so much. 

Lucian already cringed when he saw Tolfdir and J’zargo approach. He and Avis were securing the supports for a second floor, the one where his living quarters were to be. At first, he’d hoped his friends had simply come to look and would then be on their way. Unfortunately, they simply stood at the front of the house, looking up and shaking their heads, calmly waiting for him to come down and speak to them. 

Knowing it would be rude to act like they weren’t there, he finished up what he was doing and told Avis to take a break. The man happily took him up on that and wandered off to the inn for mead and a meal. He himself climbed down, greeted his friends and led them inside to an already covered part of the building. There, he offered them some drink and food, and braced himself for what was ahead.

“So, you really think to press on with this…”

Those words, spoken with an edge of disappointment, hurt the Slayer of Demons more than he wanted to admit. “I’m not giving up on magic, Tolfdir. Never would. But I feel I have to do this.”

The old wizard sighed. “For whom? The College? The people living here? Or is it to ease your guilt over a crime you have never committed in the first place?”

J’zargo was quick to pitch in. “These Nords don’t want your help, friend. J’zargo hears them mock you every day. Why try to feed those who only bite you?”

Lucian took a sip of his hot soup. “Because their opinions might change. Especially if this works out.”

Tolfdir gave him a skeptical look. “The opinion of the common folk is a fickle thing, Lucian. They adore you one moment and will despise you the next. And when you fail, even if what you did was in their best interest, they will all laugh at you rather than pity you.”

The Khajiit nodded his head in agreement. “You’ve staked a lot of gold on this. All this for Nords who’d sooner spit you in the face for practicing magic, for actually doing things that might change the world. You’re a mage and a damned good one. You shouldn’t have to be the one responsible for helping these people who can’t even help themselves.”

By now, the Slayer of Demons could feel his irritation rise. His mentor and friend were two of the smartest people he knew, each in their own way. Yet even now, they didn’t seem to get what he was trying to do. It frustrated him and he decided to spell it out for them once and for all. 

“This isn’t about ego or pride. It isn’t about who is entitled to help on what grounds. It’s about the collective survival of Winterhold.”

Tolfdir stared at him, silent for a moment, before continuing. “The College has survived the Great Collapse. If we lived through that, then we…”

The younger man grunted. “We can survive through disasters, summon daedra and have the power to fight off world threatening forces if we wish, yes. But who looks after our basic needs?”

J’zargo frowned. “There’s the inn and the store. It’s all we need.”

Lucian laughed. “And what if those are not there? This town is destitute. Few people still live here and if the situation continues the way it does, either they, their children or their children’s children will move away. If they do, who provides or food or day to day items? We might be some of the most powerful people in the world, but none of us would know the first thing about growing wheat, crafting the circlets we use or repairing a broken roof.”

That earned him another short silence, before Tolfdir continued. “Not all men are made to do the same thing. We are mages, we worship Julianos and pursue knowledge. Those who do not will never understand that. Setting up a brewery is not going to change the world. The Nords will continue to blame us for the Collapse and we tire of continuously having to affirm our innocence.”

The Slayer of Demons gave him a calm look. “Is it not Julianos that asks us to be wise? His prayer asks us to separate the wheat from the chaff. Well, that’s what I’m doing. It doesn’t matter who caused the Great Collapse. What matters is that Winterhold survives, for both the mages and its inhabitants. And for that, we have to start somewhere.”

He could see how J’zargo opened his mouth to say something, only to quickly close it and continued munching on his food in silence. Inwardly, he smirked. In truth, he could not care less about Julianos and whether what he did would please the Divine. By now, he knew calling upon religion was effective in any argument to end it quickly. After all, people got so incredibly tense about potentially offending their god and who could ever prove that what he was doing was not his will? Besides, he was done trying to justify his actions. If they didn’t understand now, they never would.

Considering the talk over, he got up, bid them a pleasant day and climbed back up on the roof. His friends at the College could disagree with his decisions all they liked. He had a building to finish.

So through the next month, he worked. He finished that second floor together with Avis, then built an impressive cellar underneath to contain the boilery. Then, the two of them could finally start working on the most important part. Adjacent to the main floor, they started building an immensely large greenhouse of the finest quality. He was certain to properly listen to the carpenter, building it so its contents would be in the sunlight at all times. It was possibly the hardest part of the process and after several months of working from dawn to dusk, this part of the building was done as well.

Next came the furnishings. Lucian had already decided up front that for his own quarters, he wouldn’t bother with anything but the basics. If he could sleep, cook food and store his belongings, he was well off and he was more than willing to sit on a crate until he could afford a chair. It was the brewery that required quality and every single day, he and Avis tirelessly labored to get everything ready and as the days slowly grinded by, the building slowly transformed from an empty space into something actually resembling a business. 

The locals still made fun of him, of course, their favorite joke being that he was at least building something interesting looking in this town. Still, he could sense that even they couldn’t argue with his dogged attitude and as time went by, he even received a few compliments about his hard work. He was sure to thank these people when they did, but whenever they tried to remind them that it might fail, he was quick to shoot back that at least he bothered. That always rendered them speechless and him free to continue his project. He was working towards a goal and if he had come this far, there was no point in stopping.

Even so, when the day finally came that the last work on the building was done, the Slayer of Demons couldn’t help but feel odd. The hammering of nails into wood and shaping stone had been his life for these last few months as had been the company of Avis. It felt strange to see the carpenter go back to Mixwater Mill and to realize that he was now entering a new phase. A new phase, he was aware, that would likely be a lot harder than this. Anyone could erect a building and call it a business. The challenge was to make it successful. 

That night, he started on the first order of business. He headed out to the greenhouse, in his hands large bags of apple seeds he’d collected over these past few months. He took a few of them and put them in the soil of the massive planters. He added some water and then put both his hands on the area. He took a deep breath and, employing the same knowledge the Telvanni had employed for ages, let his magic do the work.

Soon, he could see something push through the soil. A small green tendril rose up from the earth, only to quickly expand in length. Leaves started to sprout on it and as time ticked by, it started to increase in width as well. Bark started to form all over and as the sapling continued to increase in size, blossoms sprouted between the leaves. He quickly added some pollen and as he channeled more magic into the young tree, he saw how the blossoms eventually morphed into apples. 

He could practically cheer as he watched this happen and even more so when he reached for one of the newly developed apples and found it had a good taste. Even after his experiments had already proven him correct, it was a marvel to see a few seeds grow into a tree in a matter of half an hour and bear fruit. Employing magic like this would allow for his industry to get off the ground so much faster and would form a solid base to start from, meanwhile allowing future trees to grow within the normal timespan of four years. 

The next few days were spent filling the area with trees, as well as other ingredients that were needed for good cider. The work was intense and required his utmost concentration, to the point he’d practically have to drag himself to bed each night and entered a dreamless sleep. Still, he kept on going, raising each and every seed with utmost care, until at last, he had his own indoor orchard, in one of the snowiest areas of all of Skyrim. 

The Slayer of Demons had to admit the sight of the greenhouse made him a little teary-eyed. It reminded him of home, of a careless childhood before the Demon Dog took everything. It was good to have that little bit of home back, perhaps more so than he wanted to admit. He smiled when he opened the outside doors to the greenhouse that night, allowing the winter chill to properly ripen the apples. He had all the materials to make cider. Now he needed people to drink it.

As such, the day that Midwinter Brewery officially opened, he decided to employ quite a bit of fanfare. He invited all the townspeople, including the College and the miners as well as the soldiers in Fort Karstav and the garrison near Winterhold. Most of them were quite happy to come, glad that something was finally happening in their neck of the woods. Especially when it involved alcohol.

Even Lucian had to admit that it was quite a beautiful sight to see Nord and mage get drunk together, for once not treating each other with distrust. Many praised the interior of the building, as well as the quality of the drinks, though they once again reminded him and others that this fine place would likely not last long. Even Ranmir, a workless local man who jumped at the chance of helping him for some coin, said he did so in the assumption it was only temporary. Only Jarl Kraldar was completely positive about his chances and wishes him much luck with the future of Winterhold’s first new establishment in eighty years.

Of course, the younger man knew luck had nothing to do with it. He’d come prepared in how to make his new product known to the world. First, he’d sent letters to all the settlements he knew in Skyrim, to make an official announcement the brewery had opened. Then came his second ploy. Using some clever accounting, he managed to send a few samples of cider to every known inn in the province and some to every Jarl in all the holds. With those in place, people would at least know of the drink’s existence and as such, all he could do now was wait.

So he waited, as the days turned into weeks and slowly into months. Some orders slowly started to trickle in. Lord Kraldar and the Frozen Hearth were avid consumers and so were the few natives from Cyrodiil at the local outpost. Even the Nightgate Inn in the south happily bought a crate or two once in a while. Neonates in hopes of entering the College came to visit as it was the only real landmark besides their destination and many happily paid some money to have a local specialty. 

At one point, even some well-to-do Thane from Solitude wandered up to the brewery. While it was clear he’d simply ended up in Winterhold because he was lost, as evidenced by the nagging of his sister, and had merely mistaken the brewery for the inn, he was more than happy to sit and drink a few mugs. When it seemingly calmed his sister as well, he’d happily placed a small order of his own, which they brought with them the next day as they continued to journey towards Windhelm. 

Still, even with memorable incidents like these, he was not going to deny that business remained slow at best. Orders only came in sporadically. He would occasionally earn decent coin by having Ranmir take a batch to the bigger cities and selling them at a stand whenever there was a holiday, but other activities were far and between.

More and more, he found himself returning to the College, to spend his time there with experiments and practicing magic again. Thankfully, his fellow mages had the decency not to address the obvious, but he nonetheless preferred to keep to himself. Silence gave him time to think, both in his research and to think of ways how to make the place profitable. 

He could always make attempts to sell the cider outside of Skyrim, he realized. Perhaps he could ship some to Hammerfell through Falkreath or some to Morrowind through Eastmarch. Perhaps different people had a different taste and would appreciate it more. Still, such an operation required money and it would be good to return to either enchanting or fighting dragons again in order to raise such funds. He was once again glad he’d kept all his options open, but unlike the talk of the town, he was nowhere close to admitting defeat yet.

Perhaps his fellow mages noticed that his mind was in two places at once. One morning, as he was sorting out finances at the living quarters in his brewery, there was a knock on the door. He looked up, feeling rather hopeful as he got up and rushed to the entrance, only to find himself somewhat disappointed when he saw Tolfdir standing there.

The older man smiled. “Can we talk, Lucian?”

Lucian sighed, opening the door a little further. “Certainly. Do come in.”

He fought his hardest to keep a smile on his face and remain pleasant. In all truth, he didn’t feel like speaking to his mentor at all. He knew what he was here for and had quite a good idea of what he had to say. Still, knowing the old man felt it had to be said, he decided to get it over with. 

Tolfdir happily took a seat at the counter, graciously accepting the drink he offered. The two sat there quietly for a while, engrossed in their beverage. It was then that the older male spoke and the Slayer of Demons decided to let him.

“I quite miss you at the College.”

He smiled at his mentor being as fatherly as ever. “I know. I miss you too. And everyone else really. But I need to get things in order here first.”

The Nord wizard frowned. “I understand, but how long is that going to take? Another month? Six months? A year? The rest of your life?”

This time, Lucian didn’t respond immediately. The older man was right, of course. He’d known fully well he might start this business and it could end up being a failure. There was a chance he could still turn things around, but there was no telling how long that might take.

Tolfdir clearly sensed his thoughts. He reached out and put his hand on his shoulder. Despite himself, the younger man found himself appreciating the gesture. At least his mentor came with words of concern and care, rather than flat-out disapproval. 

“I understand what you are trying to do. And I have much admiration for it. But even a stubborn man can’t make a shriveled tree bloom. I’m not saying you should give up yet, but I also ask you to know your limits and cut your losses when the time is right.”

The younger man smiled at this sage advice. “Thank you, Tolfdir.”

His mentor didn’t miss the genuineness in those words. “You’re a good man, Lucian, and a bold one. You’ve reached higher in six months than most of us have in our lifetime. All I ask you is not to squander your youth and talent on something that perhaps can’t be saved. You’re always welcome back at the College. Please know that.”

Lucian nodded, a chuckle leaving his mouth. “I know. And I’ll remember that.”

The older man grinned and the two of them continued their drink in silence. It did the Slayer of Demons good to know the old Nord wizard had changed his stance somewhat. But then, he knew Tolfdir had never acted out of lack of faith in him. He was merely a worried teacher, looking out for his students in whatever way he could in a world that could often be brutal. 

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was not the end yet. That the brewery was not yet ready for his swan’s song. He still had options. Strings he could pull in order to succeed. Perhaps that was the one thing he learned from his time combatting the Demon Fog. He wasn’t going to lie down unless there was no other option and even then, it was best to go out swinging.

He was just about to put away the bottle when suddenly, the door to the brewery opened. He looked up, only to see a rather finely dressed man step in. Something told him he’d seen him before, but he couldn’t remember that quickly. Nonetheless, he gave him a polite smile.

“Welcome to Midwinter Brewery. What’s your pleasure?”

The man’s face lit up with a smile. “Hello! Do you remember me? I’m sure you do. Erikur, Thane of Solitude?”

The name instantly had Lucian’s memory running. “I do. You came here with your sister a month or so ago. How can I help you?”

The man walked over and handed him two letters. “I’m back from Solitude, sent by Jarl Elisif. She and the Emperor tasted the cider I brought from your place and would like to place a large order.”

The casual statement had him frown and Tolfdir’s voice indicated equal disbelief. “Wait, the Emperor?”

Erikur gave him an annoyed look. “Emperor Titus Mede II? His Grace ruling our Empire, who is in Solitude on political business? That Emperor.”

The Slayer of Demons barely even bothered to listen to the exchange. Instead, he read the letter the Thane gave him. Both bore the seal of their respective person of authority and called for several hundred bottles to be delivered at the Blue Palace. The numbers made him stagger. This order alone, and the people who commissioned it, was enough to instantly render the brewery successful.

Then and there, his heart started pounding like mad. He was not down for the count yet. Never were perhaps. Something as small as his accidental meeting with a Thane was now paying off. His coming here was not for nothing… He was so happy he could dance, but instead remained calm and adopted a professional attitude.

“Of course, milord. I will take care of it right away.”

Erikur nodded. “Please do. I will wait at the inn until it is done. We’ll settle the pay as soon as you have loaded up the carts.”

With those words, the Thane turned around and left the brewery. Silence soon returned to the building and Lucian stood there, still quietly trying to grasp the situation. Then, his eyes met Tolfdir and he could see the man smile with something akin to actual pride. He grinned, giving him an apologetic nod. 

“Would you excuse me? I have to go call Ranmir and get to work. I have a large order to fill.”

The wizard laughed, with genuine warmth. “It seems that you do, you stubborn fool. It seems that you do.”

He got up, downed the last few gulps of his drink and walked out, though not before passing him on the back. “Looks like Winterhold needs a mage like you after all.”

Knowing that was the closest he’d ever get to a compliment about something not related to magic, the Slayer of Demons was happy to accept it. He watched the man go and then hurried off to find Ranmir and start on filling that order. It was going to be hard to pull off in a day, but by now, there was no doubt in his mind he’d succeed.

Indeed, by the end of the day, Thane Erikur of Solitude drove away with two large carts filled with the stuff and Lucian and his associate found themselves holding more gold than he had seen in a long time. He was certain there was nothing that could make the day even better. At least, that was what he thought until several more couriers stood on his doorsteps with letters of their own.

Each and every one contained orders from all over Skyrim, from the Jarl’s Longhouse in Falkreath to Candlehearth Hall and the New Gnisis Cornerclub in Windhelm. He became practically dizzy at the sheer volume of demand that was now pouring in. All he could do at that point was simply grin at Ranmir and tell him his work here would likely not be temporary. Not that the man seemed to mind at all. 

Neither did he, truth be told. It was good to see his hard work pay off. To realize the big risk he’d taken had paid off and that he was able to give back to the town he now called home. Yet most of all, it affirmed him of the wonderful new life he’d built here for himself.

The Slayer of Demons didn’t miss Boletaria. He didn’t miss a world that venerated him for enslavement to the Nexus. There, his soulless remains were still the Monumental, upholding the world. Here, however, the true him, the conscious him, had been able to become a mage and a scholar. Here, he had been able to gather wisdom, as that strange god Julianos would have wanted it, and he could use it to improve everything around him.

He would likely not ever save the world again and frankly, he didn’t want to. The hero’s reward was a foul thing indeed. Yet if he could change something around here, and maybe help a desolate town back on his feet, it would bring him enough happiness to last a lifetime. He was certain he could settle for that.


	6. Magna Ge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Maiden in Black's duty is fulfilled and a new purpose reveals itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Maiden's origins in the game are really vague. The game and additional materials claim she's one of the oldest Demons in existence, possibly older than the Old One. Besides Astraea, however, she's the only Demon that has a human form. This means that either Demons can shapeshift or that, like Astraea, she may also have human origins. I decided to go with the latter for this fic.

On the first day, man was granted a soul and with it, clarity. On the second day, upon earth was planted an irrevocable poison. A soul-devouring demon.

Thus was the story of the creation of the world, as told by the Church of Boletaria. It was the story clerks and saints told amongst each other and spread through the congregation, to explain to them the lot that befall humans. Yet while they shuddered at the mere mention of the Old One, few ever spared a thought or tear for the first souls the Demon Fog claimed.

One was a maiden, on the cusp of womanhood. She was one of the first of humankind, back when the world was young. She was a strange one, never quite at home with her fellow men. One day, she had wandered far away from those of her tribe until eventually, she came upon the Nexus. It was there she met the ancient poison and it was there her fate was sealed.

Her soul corrupted, twisted into a Demon’s, she knew she could never return home again. Hers was a terrifying power, to suck out souls and leave their bodies dead in her wake. So she stayed, there in the place where everything began. Soon, or perhaps after an eternity, the Nexus birthed others like her. The first of which was the Old One, the true primordial Demon.

To serve it had been an easy choice to her. Not only because it was her only true option, but simply because of how pitiable the creature truly was. Here was a primal force, put upon this world to corrupt it, yet it never understood why or how. All it understood that it was lonely and hungry, without even the slightest inkling about why it had these needs. It was like a lost child and as she had nowhere else to go, she could not help but reach out to it. She became its mother and its keeper, she who kept the candles lit, and that role was one of both pride and sorrow.

Even now, she could not think to abandon it. Lost as they were, swept away from both Boletaria and the Nexus. A brave young man, the Slayer of Demons, had helped her do what she could not do alone by sealing away both her and the Old One, casting them adrift on the tide of existence. She was fine with this fate, to forever be the one to watch over the Old One, as long as both the world she came from and the Demon in her care were safe.

So even in a place where there was no passage of time, she diligently continued to watch over her charge. She would sing to it, the sweet ancient music humankind had long forgotten. She would sit beside it, feel its beating heart, and take solace in the fact that at last, her duty was fulfilled. 

Then, after a long time of tending to the needs of her slumbering charge, there was a change in the atmosphere. A strange energy took hold of their little pocket of reality, encroached on it from all sides. It jerked her from her trance-like state and while she could not see, she could definitely sense it. A chill crept across her body. There was someone, or rather _something_ here…

She swiftly moved her head left and right, trying to discern this strange force that had invaded their little haven. She could tell it was not a person. Not even a soul as strong as that of the Slayer of Demons felt this overwhelming. No, whatever it was, it was something far more…powerful. 

Suddenly, there was a scream. Loud and blood-curdling and frightened. The sound chilled her to the bone, only to terrify her when she realized its source. The intruder had awoken the Old One and was now tearing into the creature with all its might.

Horrified by this realization, she started to shout. “Stop! Please! Cease this! Thou art hurting him!”

The invader didn’t seem to heed her call. Soon, the screams of the Old One became worse, turning to cries of fear and intense agony. It nearly made her ears bleed and as the cries where accompanied by deep rumbling of the alien being, another terrifying revelation came over her. It was not attacking the Demon. This…force was feeding on it. 

Now, her shouts turned to icy shrieks, as she tried to find it, determined to beat it off in however way she could. The Old One was still screaming, its sounds gradually turning to whimpers as it cried out for her. The mere sound of it broke her heart into a million pieces and she took her staff to violently hurl magic at the force beseeching them.

“Do not kill him! Leave him be! Thou wilt not have him! He is my responsibility! Stop this! I beg of thee!”

With every new wave of magic she threw at the being, her threats grew more shrill. She shouted and raged, begged and pleaded. She fought, even when the being barely seemed to even regard her. Even when the Demon’s cries, she continued her assault, with nothing but her horror, fury and tears to sustain her. She could not let this happen. She would not allow herself to let this happen.

Suddenly, in the newfound silence caused by the Demon’s demise, the force turned to her. Before she could even respond, it was on her. New screams of horror left her mouth, as she felt a foreign feeling take over her body. This…thing seemed to seep through the pores of her skin, hungry tendrils grasping for whatever remained of her own demonic powers. The sensation alone made her nauseous and her entire body was petrified as she could feel it absorb the taint within. 

The sensation of growing weaker soon overwhelmed her, her body reduced to the mortal shell it once was. No doubt this creature wanted to consume her too or at least take her powers from her. Was that what it was after in the first place? The power of the Demon Soul? In that case, just how much more powerful was this being, after it was done with the Old One?

She didn’t get to think about this for long. Out of nowhere, she could feel the wax on her face cracking. A strange stinging sensation broke out all across the skin as the force touched her visage. The next thing she knew, she opened the eyes she could not even remember having and upon seeing what was in front of her, upon seeing at all, all conscious thought faded from her into an abyss of fear and darkness.

When she came to again, after what seemed like over a hundred lifetimes, the terrible creature was gone and so was the Old One. All around were sheets of white and howling winds that obliterated any other sound. Above her was a dark sky, with strange lights shooting across it and white particles raining down on her. A wry smile formed on her face. What was the last time she ever saw snow? What was the last time she even experienced winter?

She tried to reach up to the heavens, but found she couldn’t move at all. Her body was cold as ice and without feeling. She was shivering, caught in a vacuum of frost that left her frozen to the bone. She couldn’t remember ever being this cold and as she sensed her own heart slowing, she realized she would likely not last very long.

A trembling sigh left her mouth. She was fine with that. She had failed to keep the Old One safe. He was gone, consumed by that…being, which had purged her and left her here, in this place with nothing but endless snow. There was nothing left for her, her entire purpose taken within the blink of an eye. If she could die like this, quietly fading away while looking upon a beautiful night sky, perhaps it wasn’t all so bad…

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to go. She was so frozen that she could no longer perceive the snow pressing into her back or the snowflakes covering her naked form. It made her feel strangely at ease and bit by bit, she could feel conscious thought slipping away.

Then, somewhere very far away, there were voices. Voices she couldn’t recognize in her delirious state. Most of them sounded shocked and astounded, even afraid, but one sounded particularly urgent, even angry. The next thing she knew, she felt like she was floating and somewhere, she vaguely detected a sliver of warmth. Dying hallucinations, perhaps? Her mind playing tricks on her as its grip on life loosened?

That sliver, however, seemed to grow. As she floated, a strange magic seemed to pulse through her veins, gradually bringing heat back to her body. Eventually, she started to sense heat all around her, as well as a pair of hands rubbing her body dry with a cloth. Whatever conscious part was left of her took on an edge of fear and tried to push them away, only for a gentle voice to be heard.

“Ssh, it’s alright. You’re safe here. I’ll help you put something on. Just a minute. Just stay here in front of the fire, alright?”

She couldn’t even find the strength to answer, instead only feeling how a blanket was wrapped around her. She heard footsteps as the person left and fought to instead open her eyes. It felt strange to be able to see again and she had to focus for her sight not to be blurry. As she did so, she could make out flames dancing in front of her in a hearth in what strangely looked like a brewery of sorts. She would wonder how she had ended up here, were it not for how limp and lifeless she still felt. 

Suddenly, the footsteps were back. She fought to look in their direction and saw a young man of average build. In his hands was a bundle of clothes. 

“Here we go. I picked these up at the local shop. It’s not much, but they’re dry and warm. They’ll do for now.”

Still far too tired to protest, she simply let him as he came close, pulled off the blanket and helped her into the clothes. She had to admit it felt pleasant to have something warm around her and the heat of the fire as well as the warm cushion she sat on helped tremendously. Gradually, coherent thought started to return to her as her body heated back up. Feeling returned to her limbs and she jerked when she felt a wooden cup pressed against her lips. On reflex, she swallowed, only to feel a hot and sweet substance on her tongue and continue drinking.

The man chuckled. “It’ll help you feel better. Small sips. Take it easy. That’s it.”

She didn’t even think to defy him, greedily getting the drink into her system. A honeyed tea, she finally realized, and while she didn’t recognize the taste, it worked wonders for her current state. She finally regained the strength to actually look around and to take a good look at the person who had apparently brought her here.

He put away the cup and went to sit beside her. “Now, a woman named Colette Marence will be here shortly. She’s a healer, one of the finest I know. She will take care of anything I couldn’t fix. Don’t worry, you’ll be in good hands.”

She nodded as he spoke, closing her eyes, and it was only then that a thought struck her. She knew this voice, even if she had never associated it with a face. She had heard it many times before, in a world she was now banished from. She looked up at him, a shocked gasp leaving her mouth.

“Slayer of Demons…”

The man stilled, eyes widening. He looked her over, once, then twice. Suddenly, a smile came onto his face and his response told her everything she needed to know.

“So it is really you…”

In spite of herself, she smiled at that as well. This man, this Slayer of Demons, was here and he had not forgotten about her. That was more than she could have hoped for…and she had already stopped hoping for anything.

There was a silence between them, only for him to squeeze her hand. “What happened to you? How did you get here? And if you’re here, does that mean that…”

She could hear his voice take on a nervous edge and with that alone, she knew what he implied. She shook her head, biting her lip. A lump started to form in her throat and she fought back the tears.

“No…he’s dead… Gone…”

Almost immediately, she could see him utter a sigh of relief. She could feel her heart sting at the very sound. Even though she didn’t blame him in the slightest for feeling that way, what he considered the monster out to destroy mankind was still the very being she felt responsible for. It was hers to contain and protect and now, it was gone for good.

The Slayer of Demons noticed her pained state and sighed. “I know it must not sound very sincere coming from me, but I’m sorry.”

She found something oddly sweet about that attempt at condolences. Still, now aware enough and truly capable of processing what had happened to her, she only felt worse. She pulled the blanket tighter around her, trembling as she recalled her ordeal.

“There was…something. Some force. It came to us, devoured the Old One. It changed me. Then I woke up here… I cannot describe it… It was as old as the Demons but…lighter…stagnant but powerful. Brimming with magic. I cannot even describe its visage…”

The man’s eyes lit up with surprise as she related her tale. “Magnus.” 

That single word had her look up at the man in confusion and he replied. “In this world, many believe that magic are the remains of a deity named Magnus. He is one of the Original Spirits, that fled when this world was created because it sapped his power. They say he tore a hole in the sky when he fled which became the sun. He now dwells in Aetherius, the immortal plane where souls go after they die.”

She quietly took in this information while he continued. “Something strange happened, a few hours ago. There was a surge in magic around Winterhold. Experiments and spells increased in strength, stars started shooting across the sky. There was a strange anomaly down at the cliffs as well. When I went to investigate with the other mages from the College, we found you…”

The maiden wasn’t quite sure what to make of this tale. All she gathered was that some impossibly powerful, Magnus if the Slayer was correct, being had consumed the Old One and somehow let her live. Yet where had she ended up exactly? From what he told her, she assumed she was no longer even in Boletaria.

She didn’t get to ask anything else. The healer had arrived and asked the Slayer of Demons to step aside. The maiden remained quiet as the woman looked her over, only speaking in response to any of her questions. The mage complimented the Slayer on his actions, saying he’d done well in keeping her alive. It left her with very little that needed healing, but she urged the both of them to come visit her should anything seem amiss. He assured her they would and as she left again, there was only silence between the two of them. 

“What am I going to do?”

The maiden barely even realized she had broken the silence. Right now, she felt more lost than ever. She was now without a purpose, for perhaps the very first time in her unnaturally long life. The Old One was gone and she had been relieved of her own Demon Soul, facing a directionless mortal life in a place she didn’t even know. That knowledge alone was enough to send her mind spiraling and she had never felt more lost.

She gasped when she suddenly felt hands on hers and she looked up to find the Slayer looking at her. He gave them a soft squeeze and smiled. There was a gentleness in his voice she didn’t recall hearing before, alongside the usual irreverent humor. 

“You can stay here if you want to, for as long as you like. Figure out what you want. What’s mine is yours; it’s the least I can do. Though we will need to give you a name. We can’t exactly go around calling you the Maiden in Black. Especially since you’re not exactly wearing black anymore.”

She bit her lip, nodding to signify her accepting his offer and forcing a slight smile at his attempt at cheering her up. He took the motion as a sufficient answer for now and got up. He let go off her hands, planning to walk off to make arrangements for her stay. 

“Circe…”

He stopped in his tracks and stared at her, causing her to try and speak up a little louder. “My name… It was Circe…once… A very long time ago.”

He stared at her, as if in thought. It then occurred to her that he likely never even contemplated whether she actually had a name, similarly to how she never asked his. They had simply been allies with a common goal back then, aware that they’d part ways again soon and there was no point in forming lasting bonds. Now, however, the situation had changed and if she were to survive here, they’d have to rely on each other more closely. 

He smiled. “That’s a good name. Mine’s Lucian. I’m not exactly a Slayer of Demons anymore. It just feels strange to be called that now…”

She nodded and he chuckled. “Also, before I forget. You do have lovely eyes. Amber is a rare color. It’s quite nice to actually see them.”

With those words, he finally walked away and for perhaps the first time since her ordeal, she found herself genuinely smiling. However tenuous their alliance was back in Boletaria, it was clear the Slayer, Lucian, harbored some genuine affection for her and wanted to look after her. It heartened her. Whatever she faced, at least she was not entirely on her own. 

As night fell in this strange new world, the woman now known as Circe consumed her first meal in thousands of years, in comfortable living quarters on the second floor of a brewery. She had protested heavily when Lucian offered her his bed for the night, but he insisted she should sleep properly after her ordeal. He’d arrange a bed of her own in the morning, but until then, he was fine with sleeping on the furs on the floor. He was so insistent that eventually, she gave up and settled between the sheets, surrendering to a deep sleep after centuries of never once feeling fatigued.

Her sleep, however, proved to be a restless one. In her dreams, she saw him. Magnus. She could feel him all around her, his essence beckoning her to follow. Controlled by an unnatural force, she obeyed and she found herself walking across the snow, looking upon a large city she was not familiar with. 

It was a strange place, filled with snow and unknown architecture, situated on cliff looks across a beautiful sea. Its people were strange too. Some of them were human, but many of them had strange, elongated faces with grey skin, red eyes and pointy ears. Everywhere she looked, there were market stands, businesses and houses. She watched with fascination. It was a long time ago that she saw a lively city such as this.

Then, suddenly, there was a shift in atmosphere. As she looked up in the air, she saw how two large moons aligned, before clouds gathered and blotted out any light. A storm was brewing, she then knew. A storm of a most devastating kind…

She tried to walk, to speak, to warn these people of the impending danger any way she could. But she was helpless to do anything and could only watch as the sea started to churn and violently beat against the cliff. Nailed to the ground, she bore witnesses to shattering stone and horrified screams as hail and sea water encroached on the town, greedily devouring it and dragging its inhabitants onto the ocean below. 

Circe woke up with half a scream. She was so shaken that it had taken her several moments to realize where she was, but when she did, she hardly felt any better. She was still here, cast into this strange new world in a now mortal body. 

She bit back a sob and curled up underneath the sheets. The events that brought her here were at the forefront of her mind again, so vividly that it nearly made her sick. Why? Why had this Magnus chosen to spare her, after taking away everything she felt she stood for? How was she ever going to survive, having to live like this? She didn’t know and that uncertainty followed her even when she drifted back to tortured sleep again.

Needless to say, she was still quite tired when she awoke again at dawn, but she tried her best not to show it. She gratefully ate the breakfast Lucian had prepared for them, making certain to express appreciation for his hospitality. He gladly accepted this and tried to keep her company whenever work wasn’t pressing. She was grateful for this, still feeling weak from her prolonged period in the cold and unwilling to go beyond the brewery.

The Slayer of Demons kept his word to get a separate bed for her and also took it upon himself to educate her about this new world she was in. The history of this Tamriel was extensive, but at least it was interesting to look at the pictures while she watched her companion work around the brewery. The greenhouse quickly became her favorite place to pour over this literature, her own little haven of warmth, green and sunlight in this cold, snowy town. 

Still, the everyday trials of humanity weighed heavily upon her. The maiden didn’t know the first thing about sustaining herself or making herself useful. She couldn’t prepare food, bathe herself and, much to her frustration, not even read. All these things had her being dependent on her host and she hated every moment of it.

The breaking point had been when she had ventured out one day in thin clothes and contracted a notable fever. Having never had to contend with cold, much less sickness, the event sent her spiraling into panic and misery. She had cried bitter tears at her own helplessness and lack of knowledge and she only felt worse by the fact that Lucian devoted all his time to helping her get better.

The Slayer of Demons, however, didn’t seem to see it that way. He told her that he didn’t expect her to know anything, tied to the Nexus as she’d been, and that everything was going to be trial and error. He told her he thought she was brought here for a reason and until she found it, he would care for her, no matter how long it took. 

She didn’t believe him at the time, but as the weeks went by, she had to admit that things did get easier, especially when she just trusted her gut when it came to taking care of herself. With her companion’s help, she was swiftly learning to read once she put her mind to it and it turned out that with some help from those books, knowledge about a variety of subjects was at her disposal. Soon, she was also venturing outside the brewery and after a while, she felt her fears were slowly replaced by curiosity. 

Still, it was only after about three months that she finally gathered the courage and strength to truly explore. Lucian seemed to sense this, as his first question that morning was if she’d like him to show her around town today. If she was going to stay here for a while, it might be good if she knew her bearings and got to meet some of its people. Knowing he was right about that, she’d readily agreed.

It turned out that the Slayer of Demons enjoyed notable respect in Winterhold. He was what they called a Thane, an honorary title for those who greatly contributed to a Hold. He got the title as a result of the successful cider brewery he ran, the one they were currently above, which had a large part in the economic improvements the place was undergoing. 

Winterhold was still small, but it had changed significantly, from what he told her. A while ago, a blacksmith, a fletcher and an apothecary had moved into town and there were plans made for the construction of a fishery and a small port. Several enterprising farmers had also visited to study the brewery’s greenhouse as a new possibility of farming in cold weather and the discovery of new ore veins in the nearby Whistling Mine drew new workers as well. The place was making a slow but steady upwards climb and clearly, Lucian couldn’t be happier.

The Maiden in Black had to admit she enjoyed his tales as he showed her around. Still, as he showed her all the places to be, her attention was drawn to the large building north of the town. It was a castle of sorts, but it bore a strong atmosphere of this world’s magic. Needless to say, her joy was great when she pointed it out and he immediately invited her to have a look inside.

As they climbed the ramparts, he told her this place was called the College of Winterhold. It was a place where mages, both novice and full-fledged, came to study magic away from prying eyes of the magic-fearing population. He studied there himself, still did, though as of late the brewery required most of his attention. Still, he was glad to visit again and definitely didn’t mind introducing her to everyone.

She was glad that he did. Several of the people in the college were the kind of creatures she had never seen before. He explained to her that the ones with the elongated faces and pointy ears were Elves and then introduced her to what he called a Khajiit, a strange catlike being. This being, J’zargo as he introduced him, was a good friend of his and was quick to make his acquaintance.

“J’zargo is pleased to see you well. Last time I saw you, you were rather…indisposed, for lack of a better word.”

She smiled shyly, trying her best to remember what Lucian said about using “you” instead of “thou” here. “I am afraid so, so forgive me if I do. It is a pleasure to meet you, J’zargo. I am Circe.”

The catlike creature grinned. “The pleasure is all J’zargo’s, Circe. Is my friend showing you around the College? Khajiit hopes he takes good care of you.” 

She nodded. “He is, do not worry. He told me you study magic here.”

A smirk came onto his face. “Oh, we do. Many kinds. We learn how to destroy things or change them. How to conjure, enchant or even disguise them. Oh, and of course, how to restore them.”

All the maiden could do at that was cock her head. She didn’t know anything of magic in this world. Back in Boletaria, there were soul arts and miracles and both were sides of the same coin. Here, spells seemed to be of a different nature entirely. The Khajiit noticed her confusion, but didn’t seem deterred by it.

“Lucian and J’zargo will show you. There will also be lectures later in the day. You should attend. It might explain a lot.’

Realizing she might learn something new this way, Circe readily agreed. She was content to be led around, seeing every corner of this fascinating place. She marveled at the large library, the Atronach Forge and the Arch-Mage’s quarters, feeling oddly drawn to the new, exciting magic they held. She met both the faculty and the students and when it was time for a lecture on restoration magic, she happily joined everyone in the Hall of Elements.

The maiden was quite happy to see that the mage giving the lecture was in fact Colette Marence. The woman happily approached her, stating she was glad to see her healthy and about again. She then took her spot in the middle of the Hall and the students and other faculty members gathered around to listen. 

"I would just like to remind everyone, once again, that Restoration is indeed a valid school of magic. It is absolutely worthy of research, despite many of the notes I've had left in my bed. And my desk. And on occasion, my meals. Anyone suggesting that Restoration is better left to the priests of the Temples, I think, is forgetting a few things.”

Circe could see J’zargo roll his eyes beside her and mutter under his breath. “Here we go again…”

She gave him a non-understanding look and Lucian leaned in to whisper. “Colette is rather…adamant about having the school of Restoration recognized. People here sense that insecurity and some of the less reverent ones use that weakness to push her buttons. It’s a vicious circle and it’s left her with quite the chip on her shoulder.”

That explanation, combined with the underlying passive aggressiveness in the woman’s voice, pretty much explained everything to the maiden. She couldn’t exactly blame Colette. Not everyone had centuries to develop a skin as thick as her own when it came to the negative opinions of others. Nevertheless, she sat up straight and continued to listen to the lecture. 

“Firstly, the ability to repel the undead cannot be ignored. Skyrim is well known to be full of these... Draugr, ancient Nord warriors who cannot find peace. I submit that everyone in this College has, at one time or another, relied on one of the Restoration spells that can keep them at bay.”

Circe listened intently, hanging onto the mage’s every word as she demonstrated the spells. Every bit of information was greedily stored in her mind, even if she didn’t understand most of it. Perhaps it was the fact that she missed her own ability to use the soul arts or perhaps she just liked the idea of being part of something again. Either way, she found she enjoyed herself, so absorbed that she barely a rumbling noise outside the castle. 

“Secondly, how can anyone forget wards? They have become essential to any mage working in dangerous situations. They are counted upon every bit as much as Candlelight, or Invisibility. But more importantly, wards have saved lives. This is a simple fact. Every mage in this College regularly uses wards for practice, so as to avoid physical harm. I truly hope that these points actually sink in, and that more care and thought is given to this subject in the future. Thank you."

With those words, the lecture was over and all listeners were about to get up and scatter again. Circe, however, remained where she was, fascinated by what she had just learned. There was something about witnessing this kind of magic, feeling it performed by others, with the unknown spells speaking to her very being. 

She felt drawn to it for some reason, as if she already knew it somehow. As if she saw all the pieces of a puzzle and then the image they were supposed to form. That sense of familiarity struck her and frightened her at the same time. What truly happened when Magnus devoured the old one and took the remnants of her demonic power?

She tried to push this thought away. Now was not the time to think about such existential questions. She quickly got up when Lucian offered her his hand, ready to go to whatever other place within the College he had to show her. At least, such was the plan. Suddenly, the loud roar of a creature was heard and everyone froze. Frightened looks were exchanged, before one of the students said the one word everyone feared.

“Dragon!”

Within seconds, the tentative quiet of the place was shattered. Everyone quickly rallied together, while the faculty issued commands. Meanwhile, Circe could feel how Lucian took her aside, a worried look on his face.

“Circe, stay inside. We will take care of this.”

He didn’t even give her time to answer, as he quickly grabbed his sword off his belt and rushed outside. Soon, she found herself all alone as the College shook with the roars and thunderous flapping of the beast outside. There were screams and soon, there was also the sound of devastating fire and a voice that could not possibly be human.

Tales of dragons in Boletaria came to mind. Twisted Demon Souls capable of immense destruction. She wondered if these creatures were just as bad, just as capable of immolation in the blink of an eye. She shuddered. If they were, and Lucian was out there fighting them, he needed all the help he could get. 

That thought set her in motion. Without even thinking, she picked up a discarded staff and rushed outside. If it ever occurred to her at all that she knew no spells here nor how to even hold a weapon, then it was completely lost in her determination to do something, _anything_. The strange draw to this realm’s magic was still brewing deep within her and something told her she would not be useless, even here.

As she burst through the doors, her entire body froze. Immediately, she gave face to face with thick, curved horns, large, serrated teeth and frightening compound eyes. A large dragon, covered in purple and black scales, stared her down, like a wolf about to devour a lamb. She could only watch as slowly, its large jaws unhinged, revealing the massive rows of teeth and revealing the beginnings of a ball of fire in the back of its gullet. 

In that very moment, she didn’t think. How could she, facing the very embodiment of death in this world. No, she didn’t think, didn’t even truly see or even heard the horrified screams of the mages as they watched her and the dragon. Instead, instinct took over and all she did was point her staff towards the beast’s mouth and will whatever magic it harbored to happen.

Suddenly, there was a giant blast of cold and she could saw how a projectile of ice was launched towards her adversary. The dragon roared and staggered and she took the extra seconds of time she had just bought herself to take shelter behind one of the pillars of the courtyard. She quickly caught her breath, allowing the other mages to distract the threat, only to throw herself back into the fray.

For the next fifteen minutes, she fought. Using the pillars for cover, she would pelt the dragon with the ice magic in the staff. When it ran out, she instead took note of the magical components and then channeled the spell herself. She could feel the magic pulse through her veins, frost manifesting at her fingertips. For the first time since she arrived here, she felt truly powerful and it was nothing if not exhilarating. 

Her onslaught, along with that of the other mages, was quickly paying off. Soon, the dragon was weakened and didn’t know where to turn to attack. This allowed Lucian to quickly close in and charge at the beast with his sword, hacking away at the tough skin with practiced ease. Within moments, his experience won out over the being’s brutal strength and the dragon was dead.

As soon as the giant body lay motionless and he put away his sword, the slayer of Demons turned to her. He then rushed towards her, looking her over with an expression of absolute horror. His voice pitched up, betraying a similar sentiment, when he spoke.

“Are you alright? What were you thinking? You could have been killed! If something happened to you, I…”

The maiden simply watched him as he yelled at her, feeling oddly calm. Something told her she had never truly been in any danger, at least no more than the mages were. She had defended herself, drawing upon the magicka all around them with unusual ease. She had an affinity for this plane and she was capable of using it to keep herself safe. 

“I am fine, Lucian. I managed. See? There is not a single scratch on me…”

He let out a deep sigh, rubbing his face. Clearly, he was still up in arms about her actual participation in the battle. Still, he was also a reasonable enough man to concede that she had indeed handled herself admirably. He nodded and smiled, but it quickly became clear he wasn’t the only one impressed by her conduct.

“Well, you didn’t tell J’zargo Circe was also a mage, Lucian!”

The Maiden looked up to see J’zargo approach them, as well as some of the other members of the College. The Khajiit was grinning from ear to ear, before adding more words of admiration about her skill. Circe shook her head with a shy smile.

“I am no mage. I do not know even know any spells. I merely tried to copy any elements I felt and somehow succeeded.”

One of the faculty, the Elf-woman Faralda, frowned at that. “You say you know no spells, yet you managed to perform destruction magic that normally only experienced mages can pull off. So either you’re incredibly lucky or you have a knack for magic. Whichever it is, it’s very rare…and fascinating.”

Circe blinked at she listened to her, surprised by what she heard. So what she had just done was a rarity, possibly even a fluke. She had not considered that possibility. In fact, she once again started wondering if she had come onto this plane as an entirely normal person, after all. She simply stared at the woman, not certain what to do with that information. Faralda, however, did. 

The woman turned to her smiling. “Would you be interested in studying here?” 

The maiden could feel her mouth fall open, but any sense of surprise was quickly overruled by a sense of excitement. She looked at the Slayer of Demons, who simply gave her an encouraging smile. It was all she needed to turn to the elven mage and quickly take her up on her offer.

The next year proved extremely interesting for Circe. As a novice of the College of Winterhold, a whole new world opened up before her. She had access to thousands of spells and materials to craft magical items and with experienced hands to guide her, fitting in became a lot easier. 

Initially, she didn’t actually get to learn that many spells. Especially Faralda and Colette were interested in observing her, simply showing her spells or elements of magic and see if she could replicate them. She proved extremely adept at this, fascinating the faculty with her apparent affinity. 

They theorized it could perhaps have something to do with how she was found. Perhaps she had been caught in the magical anomaly and while it had taken her memory, it may have imbued her with an increased ability to channel magicka. The maiden simply decided to agree with this. They didn’t have to know about her encounter with Magnus. She doubted she would believe that anyway. 

As such, she simply accepted the theories and instead devoted her time to increasing her skills at the College. She took a particular liking to enchanting and restoration, seeing them as a welcome antithesis of what she used to be as a Demon. Soon, she found herself quite adept at both and would regularly put them to use enchanting objects or healing creatures for pay. It was a labor of love and she savored every moment of it. She liked to have this, to not be completely depended on the Slayer of Demons for sustenance and money. 

Lucian was extremely supportive of her newfound passion. Every day, he’d ask her about all the things she’d learned and when he couldn’t accompany her to the College due to business, he’d help her study in the evening. He even showed his appreciation by having a circlet crafted for her with the gems found inside the dragon she’d helped killing, saying she could enchant it however she wished. Still, he was happy to see her come home every evening, so they could share dinner and spend the evening in each other’s company. 

The maiden had to admit she enjoyed coming home to him. Here, she saw a warmer side to him, one of bawdy jokes and a deep care for everyone in this town. She loved him for his intelligence and thoughtfulness, the way he always strived to see the bigger picture. Yet most of all, she loved him for never holding her previous life as a Demon against her and treating her like someone to be loved and cherished after a lifetime of being banished to the Nexus.

In time, she started to realize it was more than just strong fondness on her part. In fact, it was a deep desire to seek him out, be close to him. Maybe to even feel his body against hers. She could not recall the last time she felt that way in all the thousands of years she had been alive or perhaps, she had never felt it before at all. Something as simple as love was not the privilege of Demons and it was as such that she was hesitant to express it, instead settling for simply having friends for now.

Perhaps it was how welcoming everyone was to her, but in time, the violent dreams about Magnus and the crumbling town, Winterhold she now knew, lessened. Instead, they were replaced with the usual disjointed imagery of dreams, the ones that allowed her a calm and restful sleep. Yet every once in a while, the same one would return and it puzzled her as much as it intrigued her.

Every once in a while, she would see a staff. It always looked the same. Made of beautifully carved golden wood and blueish crystal, it was one of the most stunning things she had ever seen. In her dreams, it would appear in the middle of the town and she would try to reach out and touch it. Yet whenever she touched the smooth wood and felt magicka rushing through her veins, the dream would end and she would wake up, confused and disappointed. 

Initially, she just shrug it off as a reverie of the night. Yet as it started to reoccur with months passing, she started to become curious. If she saw the fall of WInterhold in her dreams, then perhaps this staff was also real. Either something that existed in the past or still did. The longer she thought on this, the more curious she became and in the end, she decided to ask around, starting in the safety of her new home.

When she brought it up at breakfast with Lucian, he frowned. “A staff made of gold-colored wood and blueish crystal? I’ve never seen one like that. It’s not a regular staff, is it?”

She shook her head. “I do not think so, no. I do not know what it does either. All I know is that it emanates an intense amount of magicka, as if pulsing with energy. It is such a strange dream…”

They continued to eat in silence for a while, only for him to freeze halfway through tearing off a chunk of bread and chewing it. “…The Staff of Magnus.”

She gave him a surprised look and he quickly swallowed the bite before continuing. “I just realized… It may be the Staff of Magnus. It’s a staff that absorbs magicka, though the precise effects seem to differ on who holds it. From what I understand, it’s some kind of metaphysical source of energy for its creator.”

Circe quietly took in this information. A staff dedicated to Magnus, created by him… She’d call it coincidence were it not for her experiences coming to this plane. It couldn’t be mere chance that she was dreaming about an object she’d never seen before yet was connected to the deity that brought her here. Of course, she first had to confirm it was true. 

“Would you know where this staff is? If it still exists at all?”

The Slayer of Demons gave her a skeptical look. “It still exists. It is kept in the chambers of the Arch-Mage, though the Arch-Mage is rarely in Winterhold. The Dovahkiin has more important matters to attend to, it seems. The question is, what would you intend to do with it?”

A short silence ensued and she shrugged. “I do not know. I just wish to see it with my own eyes. If I keep dreaming about it, perhaps it is important somehow…”

“I don’t think we can use it to return to Boletaria, if that’s what you’re hoping to achieve…”

That sudden remark instantly had her look up, trying to assess why he said this. “I have no intentions to return, even if I could. My duty is done and I yearn for my life in the Nexus no longer. I am building a life here and am content with that. In fact, I may not have to stay with you much longer. I can move to the College, if you wish…”

There was a long silence between them before he finally responded. “Oh… If you wish…”

She didn’t miss the dejected tone he wielded. “Oh… It would not please you?”

There was another pause, followed by an awkward chuckle. “Whether it pleases me or not doesn’t matter. It’s your life and your decisions. It’s rather…that I would miss you terribly if you would leave…”

Having said these words, he quickly went back to eating his breakfast, but by now, he had gained her full attention. She stared at him curiously, wondering if he meant what she hoped. She was quite certain by now they were close, more than any random two people sharing a house should be. Still, she wanted him to actually say those words before anything else. 

He sighed. “I guess, what I mean to say is… I love you. I already came to feel that way back in Nexus. I was so happy when we found you, when I thought it might be you… I… I’d hate to see you leave again…”

Circe could see how he turned red by the time he finished talking. She had to hold back a smile at the sight of that. This Slayer of Demons, who fought foes most would tremble to imagine and yet it was declaring his affection that seemed to truly scare him… There was something amusing and quite charming about that, but she didn’t even get time to form a response. He got up, giving her an awkward nod. 

“Forgive me. Don’t let my sentiments influence your decision. I must start work now. Another large order came in… I will see you again at supper.”

Faster than she had ever seen him move, he was out of the room and moving downstairs to the brewery. She was left alone, baffled and not sure of what to do. Had he truly loved her as long as he claimed? Even when there was nothing about her that she considered worth desiring? That notion touched her, more than she could possibly express. It was only a shame he was so hesitant about his own feelings…

Still, she found she wasn’t sad about his hasty retreat for long. After several moments, she smiled. She had learned all she needed to know this morning, both about where her companion stood and about the source of her strange dreams. She could deal with the former tonight. Now, it was time to put the latter into motion.

Finishing her own meal, she headed off to the College. She went about her business as usual, enchanting several items brought in from all over Skyrim. The moment she was alone, however, she quickly sneaked off to the Arch-Mage’s quarters. Making sure no one saw her, she closed the door behind her and started to look around the large room. 

After quickly getting her bearings, she moved to several large display cases. All of them were filled with magnificent items and sometimes, she forsook her quest simply to admire them. Rare staves, legendary armor, even what looked like Daedric artifacts. Whoever this often absent Arch-Mage, this Dovahkiin, was, she was certain it had to be a fascinating person.

Then, after going over several of the display cases, she found it. Circe found herself pausing, sucking in her breath as she found herself looking upon the staff she saw in her dreams. The Staff of Magnus was every bit as beautiful as she’d imagined, with powerful magic radiating from the polished wood even through the case. 

The maiden stood there, entranced for several moments, before regaining her senses. She opened the case and after but a moment’s hesitation, she reached out to touch it. Her fingers closed around the middle and suddenly, there was a surge of…something.

Circe’s knees buckled as her mind was flooded with images. These were things they had seen many times in her dreams and yet they were not the same. She saw Winterhold, surrounded by great walls. The building of the College and the magic that protected its walls from the Great Collapse. She even saw a realm far beyond the world she was on and then, the indescribable face of the one who sent her here. Magnus, and many others like him, beyond the sun and stars they left in their wake.

It felt scary and exhilarating at the same time. It was as if her eyes were opened once more, as if she saw possibilities of which she had never even dreamed. For a second in time, she felt like she saw the reason behind everything that had happened to her and it lifted her spirit as well as soothed it, making her keenly aware of her new state of being. Then and there, she knew what she was to do. 

She took the staff and wrapped it up in some cloth, closing the now empty display case. After that, she slipped out of the Arch-Mage’s quarters once more and quickly weaved her way through the corridors, making sure she remained unseen. She then hid the staff in her chambers and continued to work on her experiments, only to take it with her when she left for the brewery again. She wasn't stealing it, only borrwing it for what she set out to do. Still, she doubted anyone was truly going to believe her until she pulled it off.

The maiden had made sure to remain in the College much longer than everyone else, as to make off with the staff unnoticed. It was well into the night when she returned and most of the town was already asleep. Yet there was still a light burning at Midwinter Brewery and her gut told her that it was meant for her. 

That light beckoned her inside and she quickly moved up the stairs. She quickly placed her items underneath her bed, only to smile at the image in front of her. At the table was the Slayer of Demons, half-asleep with his head on his arms. On the other side of it, there was a plate set out for her, containing a simple dinner. She could feel her heart beat faster. Even now, he still waited for her… 

Without wasting any time, Circe walked over and gently tugged at his shoulder. She watched how he stirred awake. The moment he caught a glimpse of her, his face lit up with a smile 

“You made it home. That’s good.”

She giggled at his obvious happiness. “Yes, it is good to be home again. Thank you, for waiting up for me.” 

He let out an awkward chuckle, but before he could say anything, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his. He let out a surprised grunt, but quickly relaxed again, before wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his lap. She didn’t protest in the slightest, reveling in being so close to him. It felt every bit as good as she imagined it would, perhaps even better.

It certainly felt amazing when he started slipping his hands underneath her clothes, running his fingers over the bare skin. She equally enjoyed exploring him in return and as their garments gradually started to come off, she teasingly asked him if he wanted to move this to the bed. He was quick to point out that she shouldn’t feel obliged, at which she only laughed, before taking his hand and guiding him there.

The maiden never knew how many sensitive parts her body had until Lucian explored them. Soon, she was reduced to a moaning, writhing mess, toes curling as he teased her with his hands and mouth. When he pushed himself inside her, there was no pain and all she could do was rake her nails across his back as she experienced physical pleasure beyond what she could comprehend. 

Afterwards, he took her in his arms and she contently snuggled against him as he slowly drifted to sleep. It felt good to be with him like this, she realized. To be human and to be able to feel simple pleasures such as these. It made her feel at home, like she actually belonged here and had a purpose being there. If anything, it only confirmed the revelation she’d had at the College today, the feeling that what had happened to her was perhaps not mere chance. Only tomorrow would tell for certain, but as she lay there against the Slayer of Demon, she decided that was soon enough.

The next morning, as the first rays of pale winter’s sun crept across the sky, the maiden rose. She carefully slipped out of bed as the Slayer of Demons still slept. She placed a soft kiss on his cheek, before slipping into her robes and retrieving the staff from under her bed. 

She trembled as she held it, feeling nauseous and excited all at once. So much so that she nearly contemplated not going through with it. Still, she knew nothing would be gained if she didn’t try and she steeled herself as she took the Staff of Magnus and went outside. 

Winterhold looked abandoned at this hour, a ghost town despite no longer being so in spirit. There was something calming about walking through its only street, alone with nothing but her thoughts. She made her way to the center of town, taking a deep breath. Today was the day of reckoning. 

A year ago to the day, she thought she was nothing. Collateral damage in the death of the Old One, tossed away like a soiled rag by an otherworldly entity. Yet her time in this town, with its people, had changed that. There was a reason why the God of Magic spared her, releasing her from her duty. It was not an act of cruelty, but one of mercy. Magnus had a purpose in mind for her, one of creation rather than destruction, and today, she somehow felt he’d lend her his strength. 

Circe held out the staff in front of her, going through the movements of the rituals she would perform in the Nexus. She ignored the cold, the stinging pale rays of sunlight, pouring all her concentration into it. In silence, she said the prayer she once said while channeling souls, adapting it to this new god she called upon.

“Remnants of Magnus, key to magicka’s ether… Remnants of a lost god, scattered across the earth... Let strength be granted, so the world might be mended… So the world might be mended…”

She felt silly, calling upon the essence of a strange deity in such an archaic way, yet she couldn’t think of another way to do it. As far as she knew, no other mage had ever attempted but she did. All she had to go on was her gut instinct and a blind belief in the otherworldly being who had brought her here.

So, the maiden persisted. She continued to chant, continued to move the staff in an intricate dance under the heavens. She channeled the magicka all around her, becoming increasingly more in tune with it as time slowly crept by.

The world around her, however, didn’t change. The snow kept gently falling down from the sky, the town remained silent. Nothing moved or shifted and as the cold wind and snow started to take their toll, she started to wonder if it was all in vain, even though the magicka in and around her seemed to come to a boiling point.

Then, out of nowhere, there was a noise. It was loud, so loud that it made her jump and issue a shriek. Suddenly, the ground she stood on started to rumble, violently as if the earth itself was splitting apart. She fought to regain her footing, only for her nerves to be set alight and a shockwave of magic to be released from the staff.

Before her eyes, cliffs rose from the sea. Land that had been lost in the Great Collapse rose from the ocean that once claimed it, rising back up as far as the eye could see. With it also came thick stone walls, broken remnants of houses, all bearing the scars of eight decades underneath the water. Under the thunderous sound of shifting rock, the history of Winterhold came back to the surface and all she could do was watch in awe at what she was achieving.

She barely even noticed how the violent metamorphosis had awoken the rest of the town. People stormed out of their houses, most of them barely clothed, only to freeze over and stare in utter shock. She could feel eyes on her from all sides, filled with fear and disbelief, but she could no longer care. She had come this far; she was not going to stop now. She braced herself, whispering another prayer based on sheer instinct.

“Remnants of Magnus, key to magicka’s ether… Remnants of a lost god, scattered across the earth... Let the strength of the College also be the strength of these cliffs, so the past will never be repeated… So the past will never be repeated…”

Hardly as she uttered those words or there was a sudden flash of ethereal light. It swept across the town like a bolt of lightning. A sound akin to a thousand dragons was unleashed as it seeped into the newly risen cliffs, hardening into place like iron cooled in the forge. Then, as swiftly as it had begun, the light and the noise was gone and the world returned to an eerie quiet.

It was only at that moment that Circe realized just how tired she was. What she just did had sapped all magicka from both the staff and her body and coupled with the sheer magnitude of witnessing it, she started to feel light-headed. The cold winter air did little to alleviate it and before she fully realized it, her knees started to buckle and she found herself falling.

She never hit the ground. Suddenly, Lucian’s arms were around her, holding her upright. She looked up to see his face, his expression a mixture of panic and concern. Yet above all, she could see utter amazement.

“Circe! What on earth… The cliffs… What did you do? Are you… Are you going to be…”

She smiled weakly at his worry. Her sweet Slayer of Demons, who had faith in her before she ever had it herself. She embraced him, using his strength to stand, glad to know he was there until she would recover from this titanic effort. She nuzzled his shoulder, a small chuckle leaving her lips.

“I am well, Lucian. Truly, I am. I did it… I really did it…”

From the corner of her eye, she could see the townspeople, even some of the mages from the College as they had rushed to observe what was happening. The glances they gave her could not be described with words. Perhaps they didn’t have to, as long as what happened here would not be forgotten.

The maiden had made peace with her new life. To walk among mortals as one of them, forever bereft of a Demon’s Soul. To laugh and to cry with them, to hate and to love. To find pleasure in the life she was given in Skyrim, as seen fit by Magnus, and to make it a better place in return. 

She’d fulfilled her purpose, done her duty for as long as humanity existed. Now, it was time to find a new purpose, one that was entirely of her own making. She had shaped history as the Old One’s keeper. Now, she would shape it again in Winterhold.


End file.
